


Codename Raven

by Captain_Kiri_Storm



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e03, Hochstetter is fucked up, I play loose with canon, M/M, Marya is her own warning, Murder, Not Canon Compliant, Nusing Back to Health, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Sexuality Crisis, Spies & Secret Agents, Starvation, The Klink Commandos Aftermath, Touch-Starved, WW2 is its own warning, Waffenschmidt IS a spy, Waffenschmidt can't follow orders, Waffenschmidt is an officer and a gentleman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kiri_Storm/pseuds/Captain_Kiri_Storm
Summary: The Raven, aka a certain Count Franz von Waffenschmidt, is the second most wanted spy in Germany.He escaped the firing squad by the skin of his teeth and the actions of a devilishly handsome American rake. So when said handsome American rake needs help, Waffenschmidt is more than willing to offer his services. He might have resigned his other commission and allowed his membership in the Party to lapse, but that still doesn't mean that he can't grease a few palms or pull a few strings. He didn't count on a homicidal Gestapo major, though, or that the man would take Waffenschmidt's minor defection as a personal insult. There is also the small matter of a very jealous Russian who refuses to take no for an answer.Hogan being sick is just the icing on the cake. Waffenschmidt needs to live up to his name in order to save both of them. He's not counting on finding love or even enjoying how Hogan fits in his arms. All he wants to do is survive - both as a courier and a man.He wasn't counting on love, nor was he counting on the lengths he will have to go in order to save the man known as Papa Bear.
Relationships: Count Franz von Waffenschmidt & Major Wolfgang Hochstetter, Robert Hogan & Major Wolfgang Hochstetter, Robert Hogan/Count Franz von Waffenschmidt
Comments: 27
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Colonel Franz von Waffenschmidt absolutely despised dealing with the Gestapo. His old unit had started out as mostly honorable, if a little murderous men, before it devolved into something terrible that needed to die its horrible, prolonged death. Franz had his reasons for resigning that commission and he wasn't in the mood to discuss them with every Fritz, Wilhelm, and Heinrich. As far as he cared, his business was his business. He might not have been a loyal German - never had been, in fact, as he was on the Allied payroll and had been for quite some time - but he could play one and do it well. Waffenschmidt would have been more annoyed about the pay cut if he didn't have a nice, fat bank account under Frederick Smith in Switzerland.

As it sat, he had his family's fortune that he split with his brother and two sisters, a nice manor house near Hammelburg where he bred Arabian horses, and the pay that came from London. His salary as an _Oberst_ was just the money he used to pay for his bar tab and paying off annoying Gestapo majors like the one in front of him right now.

Waffenschmidt propped his feet on Hochstetter's desk and took a long drag from his cigarette. "I really don't know what you're talking about, Major. The spy was revealed to be _Generalmajor_ Muller, not myself or Marya. I did my duty as a loyal German officer to execute him as soon as I saw the man attempt to steal my briefcase. Colonel Hogan was just an annoying, albeit attractive, nuisance. He provided a little bit of sunlight in an otherwise boring mission. Besides, the man is stir crazy. Anyone would be if they were kept in a glorified cage."

"You resigned your commission in the SS," Hochstetter growled. His dark eyes narrowed and he gripped the desk. "To me, that smells like treason."

"Then perhaps you need to have your nose examined," Waffenschmidt softly replied. "I had my own reasons for doing that, _Herr_ Major, and they do not involve matters that I could legally discuss with you. You might worship slavishly at the feet of men who were once gutter rats, but I simply cannot bring myself to do so. My unit used to be one filled with honor - now it is nothing but brutes who wish to inflict pain and suffering upon civilians. There is a reason that officers used to be nobility such as myself, _Herr_ Major. For one, we know to treat those below us with respect and dignity, whilst you and yours do nothing but throw your weight around and tarnish the German war effort!"

"If you were not a Waffenschmidt and a Junker, I would have you shot for what you just said," Hochstetter evenly said. His eyes, though, betrayed his true feelings - he hated Waffenschmidt and wanted the other man to know it. "However, that is not why I had you called here. When you were with the SS, you had quite a reputation for getting the truth out of men who would rather die than talk. That is why I have called you here today - I want you to interrogate that American colonel you seemed so infatuated with."

Waffenschmidt winced. "Major, surely you don't mean - "

"Yes, I mean Hogan." Hochstetter got up and leaned over his desk. "You might be too proud to admit it, Waffenschmidt, but you're a gutter rat yourself when it comes down to it. I don't know why you would resign a commission that I would kill for, but you have the skills and you are the only man close to me. I would like to do the job myself, but my aide had told me that I might kill him before we get to the truth. That's why it's your job to drag the truth from him. I don't care what you do with him afterwards, though I would much rather that you killed him. Get the required information out of him, confirm that he is indeed Papa Bear, and then your "attractive nuisance" is yours to abuse as you please."

"I'll do it." Waffenschmidt stubbed out his cigarette and reached for his cap. "But not for you, _Herr_ Major. I feel that our methods will be quite different - I aim to get him talking and distracted."

"I've tried it and it never works," Hochstetter replied. He picked up his key ring and started down a dimly lit hallway. "That man is very intelligent, too smart to fall for one of your petty tricks. I've found that pain loosens the lips far faster than any other method and, besides, it gives me something to do."

"Your mistake is that you have tried with women," Waffenschmidt explained. "You have never tried with a man, though, and I believe that shall break through his shell."

"Just because your kind is tolerated in Germany doesn't mean that I have to follow your orders," Hochstetter snapped. "If I had my way, you would be destroyed for the defectives that you are!"

Waffenschmidt wished he hadn't stubbed out his cigarette and that he still had the authority to shoot that annoying man on the spot. However, he didn't and his superiors had decided that he would serve the war effort best as a courier. It was a demeaning job, but it offered opportunities for a sly man to slip details of German plans to the Underground. Waffenschmidt liked to think that he was saving the soul of his country, but in reality, he knew that he was doing this for the thrill and the rather good pay. Hochstetter had no idea that he was looking at and talking to one of the better spies in Germany. Hell, even Marya hadn't known when she was leading him on a wild goose chase.

Waffenschmidt shuddered as he thought of that woman. If there was any justice in the world, she would pay for what she did and tried to do.

Hochstetter took him down a long tunnel filled with flickering lights. It looked like the place had been designed to be just as grey and depressing as possible. Bare bulbs, the kind that gave out a stark white light, barely lit the bare concrete walls. The deeper they went, the more water started to condense on the walls and pool on the bare, baked clay floor. Waffenschmidt didn't like it. The last thing he wanted to do was get stuck down here and the smell left much to be desired. Human despair and misery had a filthy, unique stench to it that clung to everything. If Hogan was down there - and had been for quite some time - Waffenschmidt had no idea what his state of mind was going to be. Hochstetter would want quick results, of course, and that was going to be quite hard.

Colonel Hogan was almost unrecognizable. Waffenschmidt had last seen him nearly four months ago, smirking at him on a train and breaking into Klink's bedroom at fuck o'clock in the morning. This man - curled up on a pile of filthy straw and clutching a tattered leather jacket like his life depended on it - was a far cry from the healthy man Waffenschmidt had once known. Hogan was very wan and pale and even more bony than a prisoner of war would usually be. His fingers were curled in an odd way and Waffenschmidt could see bruises and cuts on the bits of exposed skin. It was very chilly in the cell, even though Waffenschmidt was wearing a fur lined jacket, and he couldn't imagine what it would be if all one had was a worn cotton uniform.

"Get me a litter," Waffenschmidt finally said. "There's no way he's walking out of here under his own power and I don't want to risk it before we get the information."


	2. Chapter 2

Colonel Robert Hogan didn't know if he had ever been this cold in his life. It was like he had been stuck in a freezer or something and he wouldn't be surprised if Hochstetter had taken over the German version of a meat packing plant. It made Klink's cooler feel like a sauna in comparison. On the cold nights - the nights when Hogan thought the sky was full with a bomber's moon - his breath hung in the air in a perverted cloud. Not that it mattered - he hadn't seen the moon in weeks. This wasn't like Barracks 2 where he could just pop open the window and stick his head out the window. No, he was pretty sure he was underground. Deep underground, too, if he was going by how musty things were and the damp that settled into his bones.

He didn't know if Hochstetter wanted to break him or kill him. As time went on and the length of time between the none too gentle "questionings" increased, Hogan started to lean towards the latter. Hochstetter wanted him to die of neglect, like he contracted pneumonia from the cold and the krauts couldn't spare the penicillin to patch him up. Hogan highly doubted that the Red Cross would buy that story and he _knew_ London wouldn't, but so many men died in Gestapo custody that his case would get lost in the shuffle. Hochstetter would be free to torture more POWs and Hogan would find his rotting carcass in a pig pen. Maybe in a shallow grave if Hochstetter was feeling generous, but that man rarely was.

Hogan didn't think he could stand. It had been days, it felt like, since he had last eaten and the cold sapped what little strength he had left. He was still wearing the summer uniform he had been shot down in and suspected that the winter clothes he was due had long since been stolen by the guards. That meant he was down to nearly threadbare cotton and the cracked and abused leather of his bomber jacket. The hay he had been given quickly turned musty from the damp, but it provided a measure of relief from the cold stone floor. Still, though, there was a rattle in his chest and his body felt feverish. Hogan didn't think he had the strength to get out of this crazy place even if Hochstetter opened the door and told him to get lost.

Not that he would complain, mind you, but Hogan still would have liked to be able to stand and get out under his own power.

Someone brushed back his hair. Hogan forced open his eyes and groaned when the one man he didn't want to see slowly came into focus. Waffenschmidt had very nearly caught him and there was still something fishy about the man. For one, Hogan had no idea how and why he had hooked up with Marya - she usually wasn't interested in anything under the rank of Major General and she usually didn't touch anything in the SS. From what Hogan knew from London, Waffenschmidt had been a mere colonel in the Germany Army and mysteriously jumped ranks when he joined the abomination of an organization known as the SS. It all made no sense - what exactly had the man been doing with those plans and why didn't he raise Cain when Hogan blundered right into his trap?

Hogan frowned. The fever was talking now, but it seemed like there was a decent chance that yes, the annoying Count was a spy and that he had ignored Hogan's orders to go to England. It was that or he was hallucinating. Hogan didn't know which one was better - the idea that he was hallucinating or that the biggest wild card in World War Two was staring him right in the face. Waffenschmidt looked up and said something in rapid German. Hogan's head hurt when he tried to figure it out - translating did give him a headache - and two of Hochstetter's goons dumped him in a litter with more than a little prejudice. Which, to be fair, was probably warranted a little bit - Hogan had bitten them both when they tried to restrain him.

" _Herr Oberst_ ," the first one growled. "This rat bites. You would do well to shoot him in the head - the only things we've gotten from him are insults and curses."

"That's because you're using a crowbar when a silken glove will do." Waffenschmidt draped Hogan with a blessedly warm fur lined cape. "I'll need to administer morphine quickly - it looks like his right hand is broken and I'm not in the mood to hear a man scream. I only want a little mind you, not a lot, and I'll need a handkerchief and a little brandy." Waffenschmidt paused and smiled wryly. "Pay attention. If you ever wind up in Stalingrad, this might save your life."

Hogan grunted when he was given the injection, but sighed when the pain eased. He lolled his head over, watching as Waffenschmidt narrated as he rebroke what was already healing and neatly lined it up. That injury hadn't come from Hochstetter's men - Hogan had caught his mind in a piece of machinery he was trying to blow up and counted himself lucky that it hadn't been ripped off. As it was, he simply didn't have the time or skills to set it. Langenscheidt - the only excuse for a medic that Hogan trusted - had been on leave and it had been too dangerous to call the man back. Besides, he didn't want to get a safety lecture from a man who was ten years younger.

"Hey," Hogan slurred. He rolled over and blinked. "That's some good stuff."

"I know," Waffenschmidt replied. "I needed to set your hand again and screaming men give me a headache. Meyer, Schuster - get the litter and carry him to my car. Tell my driver to keep it as warm as he can stand it - I don't like the sound of that cough. Dead men give no secrets."

Hogan closed his eyes. He wanted to know why that man hadn't left Germany like he was told too. It was probably because he liked being an officer and giving innocent POWS heart attacks, torturing kittens, and being a general pain. Hogan grinned softly and couldn't help but laugh. General pain. In German, that would be something like _allgemeine Schmerz_. Now if it was going to be like General Payne, like the name, that would probably need to be something like _General Schmerzen_. Hogan thought so, but it wasn't like he had a dictionary on hand.

"What are you smiling about?" Waffenschmidt slowly asked.

"You're a _General Schmerzen_ ," Hogan brightly replied. "In the ass."

"That is missing something in translation and the last thing I want to do is figure it out," Waffenschmidt sighed. He get in the car and grabbed Hogan's shoulders. "I think he swallowed a book of bad puns."

Hochstetter grimaced. "Don't make me look bad, _colonel_."

"Drive on," Waffenschmidt sighed. He allowed Hogan to settle into his arms and brushed more of Hogan's hair aside. "Our first order of business when we get to my home is to give you a bath. You smell like filth and I don't want to get that on my car. You better not throw up, by the way. I've taken a pay cut recently and the last thing I want is to replace this uniform. It cost more than a week's worth of your food."

"I'll believe it," Hogan slurred. He sighed and watched as the landscape rolled by. "You, by the way, don't follow directions very well."

Waffenschmidt just laughed and held the man close. Hogan let him. He might not have liked being close to a kraut, but at least the man was warm.


	3. Chapter 3

Waffenschmidt rolled Hogan's words through his head and finally came up empty. The man was riding high on the morphine he'd been given. One of the perks of Waffenschmidt's old job was that he had access to all the good drugs. He didn't have to use old and expired drugs like the common soldiers had to and it would probably ensure his survival. Besides, if one was injecting a foreign substance into the meat of a man's arm - in Hogan's case, what little meat happened to remain - it was better to use the good drugs. As it sat, the man was dozing in his arms. Waffenschmidt tried not to wince at the drool now staining the fur lining. That was going to take _forever_ to clean and trustworthy staff was nearly impossible to find during a war.

The car rolled up the gravel drive towards a large and imposing manor house. A massive wolf hound raced beside the car, barking and baying. Waffenschmidt called them German Wolfhounds and they were the result of a cross between an Irish wolfhound - a crude, half mangy beast best suited to the Irish peasants - and a German Shepherd - the most noble and grand of dogs. The animals protected his fields and kept the tenants happy. Ever since he had started the breeding program, wolf attacks had decreased dramatically. He had also started keeping a few Alabai around because he liked the way they looked. One of his dogs - a massive white bitch named Greta - was waiting for him on the stoop. She cut a majestic figure in the dying light and when she barked, the sound echoed through the little valley.

Hogan's eyes widened when he saw the dog. "Uh, no. No, no, no! _Nein_!"

"She doesn't eat Allies!" Waffenschmidt hissed. He looked over to make sure that Hochstetter's man hadn't heard them. "She does eat Nazis, though. She's an Alabai - a type of Russian livestock dog. Many of my tenant farmers do keep livestock and we have wolves. Both the two legged and the four legged times."

Hogan swayed on his feet and his dark eyes narrowed. "I don't trust you."

"I know." Waffenschmidt picked the man up and smiled when the man yelped. Then his eyes widened when he took in the carved marble, stone, and the glistening wooden staircase. "I know you don't trust me, because you pointed a gun at me once. On the train to Stalingrad, if your memory needs jogging. By the way, you very nearly got me killed. I never want to see that Russian again."

Greta loped in beside them like she owned the place. Her ears had been cropped close to the skull and muscles rippled under her thick, white fur as she walked. She slipped a little over the beautiful Persian rugs and finally curled up in a well made basket. She rested her head on a blue velvet pillow and watched them with her keen, sharp eyes. Hogan shuddered when he saw her. Waffenschmidt wondered if the man had dealt with attack dogs before - that there was a chance he thought Greta was going to eat him instead of the odd Nazi. He glanced around as he always did before taking a small metal device out of his pocket. He clipped it to the dark blue wool of his clothes before settling Hogan down on a brocaded couch.

"Don't get that dirty," Waffenschmidt growled. "It's older than your mongrel country!"

Hogan's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were a good kraut! You _Fick den Kopf_ of a - "

Waffenschmidt tuned him out after that. He walked around the great hall, extending the little antenna out as far as it went. He turned one of two knobs as far as it went and watched as the center tachometer started jumping. Waffenschmidt was pretty sure that Hochstetter's man - his "driver" - had planted bugs in the manor before. The last thing he needed to do was have Hochstetter listen into his private conversations and having an excuse to shoot him. Hochstetter couldn't do it because he was a lover of men - something about ancient Sparta and Rome - but he could kill Waffenschmidt if he had proof that the man was a spy. Waffenschmidt didn't plan to give it to him on a silver platter.

"Your German is very colorful," Waffenschmidt casually said. "Your accent is quite good, though."

"And you are a general pain in the ass." Hogan glared at him from the couch. "What exactly did you give me?"

"I told you. Morphine." Waffenschmidt pulled a bug from the lamp and crushed it beneath his boot. It was one of the benefits of having slate floors. "It's not the expired version you know, though. It's actually fresh."

"I hate you," Hogan muttered. "Are they gone now?"

"They are." Waffenschmidt powered down the little detection device and stashed it back in his pocket. "And please do not attempt to make German puns. You have no idea how bad you sound and I don't want to try and correct you."

"I can do whatever I want," Hogan growled. "Waffle-Smith."

"That's not how you say my name and you know it." Waffenschmidt watched as the man struggled to get up before he collapsed back against the couch. "I'm going to give you a bath, you know. You might not enjoy it, but you're going to get a bath."

"I'm not five," Hogan grumbled. "I'm not going to complain about getting a bath. I smell like a kraut!"

Waffenschmidt dragged him up and helped the man stagger up the stairs. Hogan wobbled on his feet like a newly born colt. At some point, Greta joined them. She sniffed all over the man, seemingly unaware at how he stiffened, but she seemed to accept him and allowed him to struggle up the stairs. Hogan grabbed the wrought iron railing with his free hand and started to drag himself up. Generations of Junkers and Waffenschmidts glared down at them, their portraits a sharp contrast to the dark green and gold walls. Dark wood work spanned the reception room and three windows that spanned from the floor to the ceiling let in the weak winter light.

Hogan didn't seem like he was too impressed with the place. Waffenschmidt didn't know if the man was raised in a palace or if he was just in a foul mood. He was betting on the latter. Halfway up the grand staircase, Hogan sagged against him. His face turned pale and wan and his dark hair matted against his skull. Waffenschmidt rolled his eyes. Once again, he picked the man up like he was a virgin bride and carried him towards the domestic quarters. Hogan didn't complain too much. In fact, he was eerily quiet. All of the fight he had - the man that had cursed at him and tried to make a bad pun - had left and been replaced by a quiet and submissive figure.

Waffenschmidt didn't like it. In fact, he was quite alarmed.


	4. Chapter 4

Hogan felt like shit, to put a not so fine point on it. He hurt all over. His eyes wanted to close and he just wanted that nice coat again. It was lined with rabbit fur. Like the lucky rabbit's foot his commander - a guy named Major General Clancy - had carried, just softer. Hogan winced. He hadn't thought about Clancy in years. The guy had gotten shot down over Berlin and word on the street was that he took out a pack of Nazis before taking out himself. Hogan smiled wryly. Maybe that rabbit's foot hadn't been as lucky as Clancy thought it was. After all, the rabbit it used to belong to was dead and chopped up. Maybe its hide had gone to that wonderful coat Waffenschmidt had just draped over the couch.

If Hogan had a coat like that, he sure as hell wouldn't have treated it in such a cavalier way. He would have treated it like it was made out of spun gold.

Hogan rested his head against the man's shoulders. Waffenschmidt smelled like soap - the expensive kind - and the honest sweat that hadn't soured from weeks without a bath. Hogan missed taking long, hot baths with expensive soap. Waffenschmidt probably didn't know what kind of luxury he was living in. Sure, the fancy house was nice, but his belly was full, his clothes were clean, and he didn't reek of his own filth. Hogan winced. He was acutely aware of just how badly he reeked. He was also aware that, if Waffenschmidt had really been an SS man, he wasn't a very good at it. There was something too gentle about him and his accent was something posh. Like he had gone to school in England or something.

"Were you really SS?" Hogan softly asked. It hurt to talk. He smiled and winced when blood flecked his lips. "Cause if you are and you're not some kind of spy, you _suck_. And that's not a bad thing, cause if you didn't suck I would be dead right now. And I don't wanna be dead. But you're the most inept German I've ever dealt with and that's including Klink. I think you could give him a run for his money in being inept."

"I was SS because my father is on Hitler's staff," Waffenschmidt growled. "And my brother is married to some important officer's sister and my sisters are married to generals. So, you see, I got the job. Despite the fact that I'm as inept as you think I am."

Hogan winced again. Politics weren't his thing and German counts were a different breed than the English stuffed shirts. This guy reeked of danger. Normally, Hogan would enjoy butting heads with the man. The worst part about being a POW was how boring it could get and the only entertainment he got was annoying Klink and outsmarting krauts. He had enjoyed butting heads with Waffenschmidt and the man even gave him a run for his money. In a fun way, of course. Butting heads with Hochstetter never ended well, either. Maybe Hogan won, but Hochstetter was always looking for a way to nail him to the wall. Hogan figured that a half botched job finally gave Hochstetter what he was looking for.

If Hogan ever saw Carter again, he was going to belt that idiot right across the face.

Waffenschmidt picked him up once again and carried him up the remaining stairs. Hogan wanted to hide his face. It was humiliating, being carried around like he was some teenage bride and Waffenschmidt was the wicked old count. Waffenschmidt carried him towards the largest bathroom Hogan had ever seen in his life. A large mirror spanned half of one wall and the floor was carved of some kind of silvery marble. The tub was carved out of the same stuff and the brass taps looked like they were even clean. Hogan grimaced when his feet touched the cold marble. They had swollen in the cold and wet and Hochstetter's guards and cut them out of his boots.

Now his feet were cold, wet, and sore. The last thing he wanted to do was set them down on cold marble. Waffenschmidt had other ideas. He dropped Hogan down on a chair made out of some honey gold wood and turned on the taps. Hogan could have wept when he saw the steam rising off the pooling water. He clawed himself to his feet and started stripping off his grimy clothes. They pooled around his ankles. He struggled to get out of them and gripped the chair with white knuckles. Waffenschmidt picked him up with one hand. He avoided the bruised spots with careful hands, as if he knew that those were the broken places and he didn't want to actually cause any pain.

"I got it!" Hogan gritted his teeth and eyed the tub. "I can do it!"

"You're going to break your neck," Waffenschmidt sighed. "If you do that, you're going to make my idea that much harder."

"Great!" Hogan brightly replied. He struggled into the tub and groaned when the hot water started to soak into his bones. "See, I love making krauts have harder lives! That's kinda what I do to keep myself entertained. I just haven't up and died on anyone yet."

Waffenschmidt rolled his eyes and dumped a cup of water over Hogan's head. "Don't try it."

Hogan snatched it from him. "I can wash my own hair, thank you very much! I don't need some kraut - a kraut that pointed a gun at my head no less - trying to give me a bath like I'm five. Make yourself useful and deal with my clothes. Oh, and no starch in the underwear. That chafes."

Waffenschmidt effortlessly shoved him under the water. Hogan yelled and thrashed. He really didn't want to die and going in a bathtub was probably worse than getting blown up by his own bomb. Waffenschmidt pulled him up after a second and started soaping up his hair. Hogan just sulked. So he had probably deserved that. Waffenschmidt wasn't like Schultz - the guy spoke really good English - and he probably didn't take well to getting treated like the laundry boy. Besides, Hogan did want to eat before his stomach carved a hole in his back. He could smell some kind of stew. That was a sick torture, letting him smell the food but never actually give him a taste.

"I do have my limits," Waffenschmidt softly said. "I'm not a complete failure and I'm not going to tolerate you treating me like I'm a fool."

"I'm hungry." Hogan reached for the soap and winced when he saw how dirty the water was. "You going to let me eat that soup or do I just have to smell it?"

"After you get washed." Waffenschmidt kicked at the clothing. "Anything you want me to keep or can I just burn it all?"

"Keep the jacket," Hogan sighed. "Get rid of everything else."

He hated it, but they were beyond repair. Filthy, stained with blood and everything else, and torn. Hogan wasn't enough of a seamstress to patch up what was basically a suit of rags. Maybe Waffenschmidt had some fancy rich person clothes that would feel good against his skin. Hogan struggled out of the tub. He tried not to watch when his uniform was gathered into a basket and a young woman collected it. Maybe it would make good kindling or something like that. After all, it was useless as clothing. Waffenschmidt left him alone, all wrapped in a fluffy towel, and Hogan had to admit that he was bored. For fun, he reviewed theories about who Nimrod's competition was.

Kinchloe had suggested that it was that crazy SS man who bought the Klink Commandos story hook, line, and sinker. Now that Hogan was sitting in the man's bathroom, Hogan had to admit that theory wasn't quite so insane.


	5. Chapter 5

Waffenschimdt didn't know what he was going to do with this man. Hogan was much smarter than most gave him credit for, but Waffenschmidt wasn't going to let that be his undoing, too. No, the man was very smart and, as such, he had to be as bored as a brick. Waffenschmidt had never thought he was an entertainer, as the fliers he picked up could neither read or speak German, but he was going to have to start for Hogan. The man could read and speak German. Hopefully, he would be interested in the multitude of books Waffenschmidt had collected over the years. Most of them were technical manuals or history books, but he did have a few works of fiction.

He gathered up a nice change of clothes for the man along with a few thick, dusty tomes. One of them was a training manual on the new _Stuka_ bomber Waffenschmidt had bought off of a very drunk corporal and the others were just books on local history. Waffenschmidt knocked on the bathroom door before he entered. Hogan looked up from where he was sitting on the toilet. His sore and red feet were propped in a sink full of steaming hot water and he had wrapped himself in every towel he could find. Waffenschmidt just stared. He wouldn't have thought of putting his feet in the sink, he would have filled a basin or used the tub. Waffenschmidt had no idea what to say or if he should even comment on this strange happening.

"I found you clothes and a book or three." Waffenschmidt awkwardly handed him the pile. "And please, use the tub. It would be much more comfortable that way."

"You try filling the tub when it feels like you're walking on broken glass," Hogan muttered. "You are going to feed me, right? Because I can smell the most wonderful soup and I want it. Now."

"Just don't get your hopes up," Waffenschmidt sighed. He helped the man dress and watched as he struggled to get up. "I don't think you're healthy enough for German food. It tends to settle like stones in one's stomach. I'm afraid that you don't have the strength for it yet. I've asked for a nice, light potato soup for you. Maybe a little wine later if you don't get sick."

"You _rat_." Hogan glared at him. "Letting me smell all that and then giving me potato sludge!"

Waffenschmidt sighed and helped the man up. Hogan still wobbled on his feet like a newborn colt, but it seemed that he was feeling stronger. Waffenschmidt still didn't want to try his luck, though. He took most of the man's weight on his shoulders and guided him down the stairs. Hogan's face was pale by the time they got to the bottom and his hands shook as he tried to steady himself. Waffenschmidt didn't try to rush the man. He was clearly struggling, but too proud to be carried. Hogan struggled to his feet after a second. He grabbed Waffenshchmidt's sleeve after a second to keep his legs from giving out. Waffenschmidt finally sighed and picked Hogan up.

"Why did you do that?" Hogan asked. "I had it!"

"I wanted to protect my rug." Waffenschmidt didn't dare say that he actually cared and this American intrigued him. "I don't want your feet to give it a run or a hole."

Hogan gave him a dark look. He still didn't fight, though, and he allowed Waffenschmidt to help him sit in a narrow wooden chair. They weren't going to eat in the formal dining room, as that would take too long and be too cold. The kitchen - a massive place carved into the earth with a swept clay floor - was much warmer. It was filled with herbs hanging from the ceiling, braids of onions and turnips, and sacks of potatoes in the corners and the pantry. Pots hung the ceiling. They were made of beaten copper and filled the air with a warm copper glow. Waffenschmidt could heat himself water for a cup of tea, but otherwise, he was helpless. He did know enough to know that an electric range was a great help and Heidi had given him a neatly written note on her off days.

Waffenschmidt grabbed it from where he had stashed it by the stove. Hogan's soup was thinned with a little water and jellied chicken stock and his was placed in a hot oven. The wine came from his private cellar and Hogan's milk came from the newfangled refrigerator. Heidi was kind enough to suggest things she needed for Christmas and it wasn't that much of an expense to purchase her one. Besides, Waffenschmidt wanted to keep her and the rest of the staff on. That meant that he had to purchase a few new gadgets and learn to care for himself a little bit. Hogan didn't seem to appreciate Waffenschmidt's lessened domestic helplessness. He just glared at the table and ignored the training manual.

"Here." Waffenschmidt poured him a little red wine and offered him a little fried salt pork. "As soon as you're healthy, we'll share meals."

"'Great." Hogan rolled his eyes. "So now I have to get treated like a small child while you eat the big person food."

"That's..." Waffenschmidt sighed as he stirred the soup. "That's very not true and I don't know why you're saying that. I don't know where you got that idea from or why you thought that I might torment you with food. All I want to do is keep you healthy. If I allow you too much food, you will get sick and you might even die. I don't want that to happen."

Hogan sighed. "I am hungry. I... Look. I feel like shit and I have no idea why you didn't just leave me to die. Why am I here?"

"Because you intrigue me," Waffenschmidt replied. He frowned as he measured out a precise amount of soup - just a simple soup made of potatoes, cream, onions, and a little bacon - into a beautiful china bowl and passed it to Hogan. "You never did fear me, not even when you thought I was going to kill you. And you saved my life. I thought that I might return the favor and give you the chance I was given."

That was the honest truth. Waffenschmidt didn't know if Hogan believed him, though.


	6. Chapter 6

Hogan didn't know why that kraut never scared him. Maybe it was because he had something of a death wish or the fact that Waffenschmidt hadn't blown his and Newkirk's heads off. Hogan had been surprised that the man just wanted to hold him in the cooler until he got back from the Russian Front. Hogan had heard stories of that place and he knew enough to know it was a place men didn't come back from. If they did come back, they came back broken in some strange way. After a little bit, Hogan was pretty sure that Klink would have needed his labor after a little bit - there was always a road that needed to be fixed or a bridge that needed to be rebuilt - so he would have been released in a few days.

Hogan tucked into his dinner. He normally didn't like potato soup - the kind served up in Stalag 13 was more water and onion than potato and bacon - bit this actually tasted good. Plus, the milk was fresh. It wasn't powdered like he was used too, nor did it come from a sheep or a goat. No, it was proper milk from a proper cow and it tasted _delicious_. It was even cold enough that he had to wipe off his hand every so often. Hogan fought the urge to hunch over his food. Waffenschmidt had his own plate and, going by the way he was chowing down, enjoying it. Hogan eyed the wine. One of the perks that came from baby sitting Klink was getting a little buzzed and it had been so long since he had tasted a decent red.

"Do I get any?" Hogan wiped his mouth off and resisted the urge to lick the bowl. "Because it's been a long time since I've had a good drink and I could _really_ use it right now."

Waffenschmidt sighed and looked at the decanter. "I don't know if it would be good for you or not."

"In America, we give sick people wine to warm them up," Hogan quickly lied. "Sometimes, they do that in England, too. Not my fault that you're behind the times."

"I know you're lying to me," Waffenschmidt replied. "Oxford was where I went to university. I'm pretty sure that the nurses there did not give sick students wine to warm them up. I was one of those sick students, by the way. Pneumonia. The damp British climate and I did not agree for the longest time and I developed a hacking cough that did not go away no matter how many of those asthma cigarettes I smoked."

Hogan winced. "That really sucks. Those things taste awful, by the way. I have no idea how some of my men smoke them."

Waffenschmidt reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled pack. Hogan grabbed for it. They weren't his preferred brand, but it was next to impossible to get American cigarettes in Germany. Waffenschmidt struck a match off the wall and even allowed Hogan to smoke in the kitchen. The first drag was absolute heaven. Hogan couldn't stop himself from closing his eyes and drowning in pleasure. Sure, this wasn't the best habit in the world, but it was relaxing and Hochstetter didn't believe in letting his prisoners - or his men - smoke. That meant that Hogan had gone cold turkey as soon as he landed in that cell. Hogan savored that smoke and sighed when he was forced to stub it out.

"Am I rationed?" Hogan finally asked.

"Well, you're not allowed in my cigars," Waffenschmidt replied. He smoothly got to his feet and offered Hogan a hand. "Come on. You've had a long day. A good rest would be just what the doctor ordered. I don't have any pressing matters for the next few days, so I should be around to personally attend to you. I don't understand American modesty, but I do understand that you will want as few men to see you vulnerable as possible."

Hogan nodded. He didn't know how to say it, but he was grateful for that. The fewer people who saw his naked body, the better. Waffenschmidt was bad enough, but adding in some random kraut would be the absolute worst. Hogan had hated having to wash in front of other men - especially if he was under guard - and it had taken him the longest time to not die of shame. It was bad enough that he wouldn't be able to go to the toilet on his own. He didn't think he could take it if a man he didn't know man handled him. That had happened far too often with Hochstetter and his goons. Small mercies were good mercies as far as Hogan cared. Even if they were coming from a former SS man.

He sighed and held out his hand. Getting up the stairs was going to be like climbing Mount Everest, but he was going to do it. Waffenschmidt sighed and threw Hogan's arm over his shoulder. Hogan gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the screaming pain in his feet. It felt like he was walking on broken glass, but he still struggle up the carpeted stairs. Waffenschmidt held him carefully. Hogan didn't try to force him away, but he did wish that the kraut would let him walk on his own. He could do it - he _knew_ he could. Hochstetter hadn't torn him up that badly. Sure, his feet were probably going to start bleeding again, but he could do it. Even if it killed him first.

Waffenschmidt sighed when they reached the middle landing. "You're going to kill yourself if you keep this up. What's so bad about carried when you can hardly walk?"

"Because I'm not a child!" Hogan snapped. "And I'm not your blushing teenage bride, either!"

Waffenschmidt rolled his eyes. "Colonel, I'm not going to do something awful to you. I am simply going to carry you to your bedroom, have the housekeeper give you a hot water bottle, and then let you sleep. I don't know what we're going to do with you in the morning. However, it has been quite a long day for the both of us and I don't want to exert you any more than I must. Breakfast will be around 7:00 AM. How does oatmeal sound?"

"Great," Hogan sighed. He allowed Waffenschmidt to scoop him up and carry him up the rest of the stairs. "I'll eat anything, you know. It's not like I'm going to start fussing about the food."

"You could have fooled me," Waffenschmidt muttered. "Let's not try the stairs until your feet aren't bleeding, alright? Blood is so hard to get out of the carpeting and I don't know how I'm going to find the cleaner in the middle of a war."

Hogan rolled his eyes, but he gasped when he saw the bedroom. That single room was half as big as his entire house back in Cincinnati. The ceiling was high and vaulted and huge windows that spanned from floor to ceiling ran down the length of the south wall. The walls were covered in a green, red, and gold wall paper, along with gold framed portraits and other art objects. The bed took up a quarter of the north wall - it was a four poster, with a canopy made of heavy green velvet. A fire blazed in the very large hearth and warm rugs covered the hardwood floor. Hogan's eyes almost bugged out of his head. He thought that Klink's quarters had been opulent, but this was something else.

"This is gonna be mine?" Hogan whispered.

"Yes," Waffenschmidt replied. He set Hogan down on the bed and smiled softly. "This is going to be yours for as long as you stay here."

Hogan nodded and swallowed softly. "Yeah. I think I'm gonna like it here. If this is where you're gonna keep me and not throw me in the cellar once you get bored of me."

"Lily!" Waffenschmidt yelled. "A hot water bottle, please! Our guest is going to need the extra warmth!"

Hogan smiled as he started wrapping the heavy blankets around him. As far as he cared, this was heaven.


	7. Chapter 7

Waffenschmidt glared at the phone and tried to think about the lie he was fixing to concoct. It was going to be a big one - bigger than the one he told Marya to get her off of him. That one had lasted all of five minutes until she realized that no, he was not married to a general's daughter named Lisa and no, said general was not going to string him up by his thumbs if he slept around. Marya had seen that one as a challenge and probably even tried to play him and Hogan off against each other. That was one thing Waffenschmidt knew Hogan would agree with - Marya was a menace and she didn't know how to take rejection gracefully. Or any way at all. She seemed to think it was a game when it really, really wasn't.

Waffenschmidt locked himself in his study and punched out the number by memory. "Mila, get me Gestapo Headquarters in Hammelburg, please. I would like to speak with Major Hochstetter."

Waffenschmidt waited for Mila to get over her heart attack. He probably needed to send her a nice gift for all the trouble he was going to put her through. Perhaps the colonel could help him find her a nice pair of nylons. Did women even like nylons? Waffenschmidt saw advertisements for them in nearly every magazine he purchased, even though such things were hard to come by these days. Perhaps he needed to send Mila flowers. He didn't want her to think he was interested in her - she was married and the last thing he wanted to do was start trouble with her husband - but he did want to thank her. She was going to go through a lot of trouble on his behalf. A handwritten card wasn't going to cut it.

"Colonel." Hochstetter sounded like he in the middle of torturing some poor soul. "What the hell do you want from me? This should be good, because I am in the middle of interrogating Underground Agents. My crowbar, as you say, is going to get more results than your pathetic silk gloves."

Waffenschmidt rolled his eyes. "I know where the hidden radio is outside Stalag 13. All it cost me was a trip up the stairs, a bath, and a hot water bottle or three."

"I don't believe it," Hochstetter growled. "You're lying to me! Or Hogan is playing you for a little fool and you're lapping up every word of his. You should turn him over to one of my men and I'll know everything about this radio of yours or if it even exists."

"I need a drink," Waffenschmidt groaned. "Would it help if I lead a group of men to the radio and had a brass band playing whilst we did so?"

Hochstetter was probably spitting glass on the other end. "I don't trust you, you know. You went to school in England and picked up those weak attitudes of theirs. You're a waste of a soldier and an officer and I am tired of playing your insulting, humiliating games. Either you tell me where this radio of yours is or I'll have that precious _amerikanischer Mann_ of yours taken to my headquarters and executed for treason. _Painfully_. I haven't decided how I want to kill him yet. A simple bullet through his brain would be too good for him, I feel, and I don't want to waste the rope on a hanging. I was thinking that I might drown him or use him as training bait for our Dobermans. Like I said, I haven't decided yet."

"I'll find the radio," Waffenschmidt sighed. "I'll have to travel to Stalag 13, of course, and talk to some of the colonel's men. They might be more willing to talk if they know he's safe."

In fact, that was what Waffenschmidt was going to count on. He had no idea if it was going to work or if Hogan's men would be just as hostile as he was. Waffenschmidt feared that it was going to be the latter. Hogan had probably trained them well. It was going to be hard getting through to them and Waffenschmidt was going to need their cooperation. For one, he didn't have any spare radios lying around. He highly doubted that Hogan's men did, but they could always plant something in the woods that looked convincing enough. All it had to do was fool Hochstetter. That wasn't going to be that hard, Waffenschmidt figured, but they still needed to make it look real.

"Do it," Hochstetter growled. "Get me the information and get out of my life."

"Good night to you!" Waffenschmidt replied. He cut the line and rubbed his face. "I am going to get drunk before I go through my entire ration of cigarettes."

That man pushed his buttons in a way no one else could. Waffenschmidt rubbed his face as he turned out the light. Hochstetter wasn't just a pain, he was also dangerous. The man was a rabid dog. He had no respect for anything and anyone when it came to finding anyone he considered the enemy. Who that enemy was tended to be as fluid as the air he breathed. Sometimes it was dangerous commandos under the control of a madman obsessed with geraniums. Other times, it was old women. Children. People who had the misfortune of having a certain name or not fitting what Hochstetter thought was a proper German. Waffenschmidt knew that he had angered the man when he resigned - his father and brother were the only things keeping him from Stalingrad or worse - but he didn't think the man was going to be this angry.

Waffenschmidt downed a shot or two of schnapps and decided that he was going to check on his guest. It was late and he didn't need to wake Lily for a simple task. He smiled softly as he slipped through the darkened house. This place was his home - his _everything_. He loved the ancient floorboards that creaked under his feet and the worn places where generations of feet had walked. He wasn't the last of his long, sprawling family tree - when he died, his brother's oldest son would inherit the place - but it was rather sobering to realize that he would never fill this house with his own children. He got a few strange looks when the others realized that he wasn't married and he could only avoid the questions for so long.

What he wanted in a partner was alright for a common citizen, but unthinkable for nobility, especially a man of his rank. Waffenschmidt was supposed to be above those sort of carnal desires. He had hated himself for the longest time because of what he wanted until he finally forced himself not to care. It hurt, though, knowing that he had failed in one of the most fundamental aspects of manhood.

He stroked Hogan's face before he checked the water bottles. Hogan looked like an angel as he slept, but his cheeks were flushed. Waffenschmit cursed softly. He had been so stupid - the man likely had a fever and now he had been overheated. The sheets were soaked with sweat and Hogan's hair was plastered to his forehead. Waffenschmidt wrapped him up in a blanket and carried him back to the study.

It was going to be a long night.


	8. Chapter 8

Hogan's body ached all over. His head throbbed like the krauts had used it for a soccer ball and his ribs throbbed with every breath he took. For the longest time, he felt like he was wrapped with fire and barbed wire. Hogan had felt even weaker than usual. He could hardly move his head and any chance he had of crying out died when he realized that Waffenschmidt had shut the door behind him. So that was how the man wanted him to die - roasting in his own sweat and too weak to even complain about it. Then blessed coolness flooded his body and someone carried him through the house. Hogan might have hated Waffenschmidt, but he hated soaking in his own sweat more.

He woke up maybe a few hours later and groaned. "I don't feel so good."

"I'm aware." Waffenschmidt had pulled off his coat and had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. "I would like to do something about your feet, by the way. They're starting to worry me. I don't want you to lose a toe or two. Or, god forbid, you might lose your entire foot. I'm starting to think that you have trench foot or something close to it. Naturally, I'll try to treat this tomorrow, but we can do a little work now."

Hogan groaned. "You don't let a man rest, do you?"

"I don't want your feet to rot off," Waffenschmidt growled. He snapped the book closed and put it down on the small table. "During the Great War, I was part of a medical unit. Not a surgeon, mind you, but I assisted them. Swept the floors, cleaned the linens with the nurses, treated some of the minor cases, and treated the horses besides. I think I know how to care for this, but it's been a few years. Starting now, you are banned from socks and we are going to get very familiar with each other. I do hope that I have enough oil to give you a massage a few times a day."

"What?!" Hogan yelped. "You can't do that to me!"

"Yes, I can and I will." Waffenscdmidt rolled up his sleeves and buttoned them so they stayed in place. He knelt beside Hogan's feet. "I'll give you aspirin in the morning for the pain. I wish I could do something with the swelling, but that will have to wait on your body. I hope you enjoy keeping your feet elevated."

Hogan rolled his eyes. He didn't like the idea of another kraut touching his feet, but Waffenschmidt had such strong hands and he could feel something other than pain for once. The man didn't say anything, which was nice. Hogan still felt feverish. He lay back against the couch and pulled at the sweaty blanket. Hogan wanted to toss the thing away from him, but he didn't have the strength. He tried to flex his toes after Waffenschmidt rubbed them. For once, they flexed a little and he didn't feel like he was walking on hot coals. Hogan just lay there and tried to work through the possibilities. He had always known this man was crazy - you had to be to join the SS - but he just hadn't known how deep the madness went.

"Think I could have a snack?" Hogan suddenly asked. "I'm kinda hungry right now. Thirsty, too."

Trench foot had been one of those things that his father had complained about. It left John Hogan with a severe limp on the cold days - so bad that he could hardly walk and had to use a cane to even go to the bathroom. Now Hogan was dealing with the same thing. That cell had been wet and Hogan's boots were old. The right one had a big old hole right in the sole. Cardboard did next to nothing when it got wet. In fact, it just made the damp worse. One of the goons had even woken him up by dousing him with buckets of ice water, so Hogan never had the ability to get dry. Now that was biting him in the ass. Hogan wanted to kill Hochstetter or get him just as wet and cold for however long it was.

Hogan smiled when he saw a little glass of amber liquid. "Oh, you are a doll!"

"It's to thin your blood. Helps with the circulation." Waffenschmidt helped Hogan get the glass to his mouth. "Enjoy this, by the way. It's my personal drinking schnapps. I only enjoy the best liquors."

Yeah, Hogan bet he did. The schnapps wasn't the wine he preferred, but it was good and it gave him a nice little buzz. It took the edge off his pain and helped him relax. Waffenschmidt was still screwing with his feet, but at least Hogan had a little schnapps in him. He could really use a smoke, but the last thing he wanted to do was push his luck. He had already pushed his luck with how he was annoying Waffenschmidt. A kraut was a kraut, no matter how pretty their words were or how good their hands felt. Hogan's men were half starved while this guy was holed up in his study smoking fancy cigars and drinking whatever he wanted. That little sip of schnapps probably cost more than Hogan made in a month.

Not that he got to see it - his pay was waiting for him in a New York bank vault. Hogan hoped he lived long enough to spend it all.

"What do you want from me?" Hogan finally asked. He propped his aching feet up on the coffee table and tried to ignore the dirty look. "I'm not exactly some pretty dame who's gonna melt at your feet and give you kisses, you know. I've probably killed more men than you have."

"It's not a contest." Waffenschmidt sounded pained as he unbuttoned his suspenders. "As for what I want... Again. You intrigue me, Hogan. You're not afraid of me and I like that. Also, your bark is far worse than your bite. I'm not exactly afraid of you, either."

"Yeah," Hogan groused. "This time, I'm the one in the hot seat. How did you get tangled with with Marya anyways?"

Waffenschmidt sighed like he was weighing his options. "Because your command told her that I was the Raven. She wanted to compare notes, see if I had any sources she did not, and get laid. The fact that I was not interested in her advances meant nothing. The woman is nothing if not persistent, even if my rank wasn't sufficient for her even then. Things have gotten rough in Russia and Marya owes a lot of people a lot of money. She intends to get it, one way or another."

Hogan blinked. "You've got to be kidding me! _You're_ the Raven?!"

That stone faced failed Nazi with the big words and pompous attitude was the Raven? Hogan couldn't quite believe it. Of course, it did make a good deal of sense. Waffenschmidt didn't kill him and Newkirk because they were on the same side. London didn't tell everyone the identities of their spies - Nimrod was known only to themself and Churchill. It made sense to do that with someone like the Raven. Hogan still couldn't believe it. The Raven was supposed to be a true gentleman, charming with the ladies and an expert pistol dueler. Sure, that probably described half the German nobility, but Hogan never would have thought that Waffenschmidt could play anything but surly kraut.

Waffenschmidt smiled and stowed away his glasses. "I would like you to write a little note for your men, Colonel. Do any of them smoke perchance?"

"Newkirk smokes like a freight train, but I really don't see how that's going to help you." Hogan crossed his arms. The Raven. He couldn't believe it. "What exactly do you want me to say? Hello, I'm doing fine, I'm not going to die from trench foot?"

"Something like that." Waffenschmidt found a pencil and handed him a thin sheet of creamy paper. "Oh, and Colonel? I know the updated code and I speak English, French, Spanish, and enough Russian to pass as a scholar. I'll know if you tell them to shoot me."

"Oh, I wouldn't _dare_ try that," Hogan growled.

Krauts. Always showing off, the lot of them.


	9. Chapter 9

Waffenschmidt stepped out to the balcony, lit a cigarette, and tried to calm his racing nerves. There was a good chance that Hogan was going to try to kill him. Waffenschmidt didn't quite blame the man, but it was going to make that rendezvous with his comrades that much harder. Hogan was a very sharp man and if he wanted a fellow dead, there wasn't much that could be done to stop it. Waffenschmidt was going to have to take that chance. There simply wasn't a way that he could slip a radio through the woods at Stalag 13 and have it look natural. For one, he didn't have a spare radio. For another, he had no idea how Hogan's men rigged their sets. For all he knew, Hogan had a special routine and if something was off, Hochstetter would know.

He noticed that he was reaching the end of his cigarette and used the butt of that one to light another. Waffenschmidt didn't chain smoke very often, but it did calm the nerves. With Marya, he had gone through two packs of cigarettes in as many days. Hogan wasn't going to push him that far, but the temptation was still there. Waffenschmidt firmly shoved that idea aside. His thoughts finally cleared up as a light snow started to fall. The flakes settled on his shoulders and melted, leaving behind a stinging dampness. Waffenschmidt brushed them aside and allowed his mind to wander. This war was different somehow. More brutal. Lead by a man who wanted to rule the world instead of a tangled web of alliances and followed by a pack of rabid hounds.

Hochstetter was one of those hounds. Waffenschmidt knew that he had worked for an intelligence unit in the Great War and had volunteered his time with a mad scientist named Doctor Schuyer. The things that man had done made his blood run cold and the idea that Scchuyer could still be out there - Waffenschmidt had personally overseen the hunt to destroy that human animal, which probably earned him the attention of London - made him very nervous. Hochstetter probably kept correspondence with his old friend where they talked about inventing new types of torture. Schuyer had a thing for blue eyes - thank god Waffenschmidt and Hogan had common brown eyes - and there were few men that could prevent Schuyer from just dragging them off.

"Waffie?" Hogan called. "I'm done with my letter!"

Waffenschmidt threw off the phantom touch as he entered the study. "Please don't call me that, Colonel. It brings back some bad memories."

"She got you, too?" Hogan propped his feet up a little higher and winced. "Sorry 'bout that. I should have known. I think LeBeau is the only one who can stand her one on one."

"Whoever he is, he's crazy," Waffenschmidt muttered. He noticed the man's longing and lit him one of the precious cigarettes. "Be very kind to these, Hogan. I don't have many American ones left."

Hogan turned it over in his hands. "You know, my dad used to smoke these, but I haven't seem them since World War One. How did you get them?"

Waffenschmidt smiled sadly. "An old friend of mine before he died. There was someone who wanted to keep the war going on forever until it cleansed the world of anyone not German. He kidnapped and tortured chemists until they made horrible things for him and, when one woman drank the poison she made instead of work for him, he used her children to train war dogs. That man... that _Captain_... He found where Schuyer was holding most of his weaponry and destroyed it at the cost of his life. He stayed at my manor before that night and I was allowed to love him for a short time."

"Oh." Hogan glanced over to a picture. "That him?"

"Yes." Waffenschmidt crossed the room and stroked the still face. "I loved him for a short time and he loved me. After the war, we were going to travel the world, I think, and he was going to take me to America. When he died, I mailed what I had of his things to his mother and went to the funeral in her stead. Schuyer is still alive, as is Hochstetter, and together they make the world a darker place. I have found that the innocents, the good men, die younger and faster than the evil ones. My Captain Anderson was a good man, Colonel Hogan, and I failed him when I could not find and execute Hans Schuyer."

"I see." Hogan leaned back on the pillows and picked up his paper. "Moving right along, "Dear Newkirk, Kinchloe, LeBeau, and Carter: I'm not dead, I'm holed up with that Count Newkirk and I surprised in Klink's bedroom. He's surprisingly housebroken and he has a plan to outsmart Hochstetter and get him off Klink's back for good. I want you to follow his plan and no funny business. PS: I'm fine, I feel like shit, and no, Newkirk, he doesn't have any American cigarettes." How does that sound, Waffenschmidt?"

"Very good, thank you." Waffenschmidt rolled up the piece of paper and slipped it in a battered carton. "And housebroken? Really? I'm not Greta."

"You're not gonna leave that dog in here, are you?" Hogan asked.

Waffenschmidt just smiled as he took his coat and hat. "No, but I am going to leave one of the Dobermans. His name is Alfie and, don't worry, he's quite tame. It's his job to assist you whilst I'm away. He should be big enough for you to support yourself for a short walk and if you fall, he is trained to alert one of the servants to help you up."

"Splendid," Hogan muttered. "More dogs."

Waffenschmidt just smiled as he let the big black and red dog curl up on the rug. "I'll be back soon, Colonel, and hopefully with good news."

Waffenschmidt tried not to think of the adder's nest he was walking into. This was so dangerous and foolish that it was almost breath taking, even by his standards. For all he knew, there was a double meaning in Hogan's words. The driver - Hochstetter's spy Niklas Meyer - seemed to think that he was insane, but he dutifully fired up the car and started the long, winding road to Stalag 13. The war had ravaged the countryside around them and old bomb craters - some from the First War and some from this one - dotted the forest and hills. In one of those craters, one far away from here, lay what was left of Jacob Anderson, but it was too contaminated for man or beast to enter.

It would stay that way for a thousand years and, by then, not even a memory of that man would remain.

Waffenschmidt pressed his lips to a little golden ring, the same thing he had done for twenty five years now whenever he needed strength and courage.


	10. Chapter 10

Hogan glared at the pencil and tried to imagine what his men would say. Kinchloe wasn't going to be too much of a jerk - they could probably talk radio until they both turned blue in the face. LeBeau was going to be rough on him until he learned that Waffenschmidt had those nasty looking dogs. Carter was going to fawn all over the man and drive Waffenschmidt nuts with questions and inane chatter. Newkirk was going to bum cigarettes off the man and pick his pockets until Waffenschmidt's remarkable patience ran dry. For a kraut, Waffenschmidt had the patience of a saint. Sure, he could - and did - lose his temper, but Hogan had to push.

Besides, no one liked being called a laundry boy. Hogan really should have seen that one coming.

He rested back on the couch and grabbed one of the books Waffenschmidt had been so kind to lend him. He thumbed through the first one and a manual fell out of the hole rather cleverly cut in the pages. Hogan whistled softly.

"Well, hello there. Come to Papa." He leaned down as best he could and glared at the dog when he came trotting over. "Not you, stupid. I want the book. Now how did an ex SS guy get a book about _Stukas_? Either this is some kind of bizarre trap or I'm really in the Raven's house." He glared at the dog. "The Germans don't have an Operation Acoustic Doggie, do they?"

The dog just whined and yawned. He flopped down at Hogan's feet and Hogan did admit that he made a very warm footstool. He didn't like dogs - especially German dogs - but he had to admit that a Doberman was nicer looking than that big white bitch. Alfie seemed like he was actually trained, whereas Greta just ran around and barked at everything. She didn't look like any attack dog. For one, she was far too nice. Even Otto's dogs were standoffish and didn't enjoy being petted. One of them, a bitch named Lisel, had bitten LeBeau after he tried to feed her kitchen scraps. Lisel, by the way, was one of the friendlier ones. Heinrich was liable to tear anyone's face off if he felt like it.

Of course, that was the dog the Gestapo decided to use as a stud. It helped that he was as dark as the midnight sky and that seemed to be the color the Gestapo favored.

"You a friendly mutt?" Hogan asked. He hid the manual under the cushion and smiled. "Do you play fetch?"

Alfie suddenly jumped up and whined. Hogan grinned. He loved dogs, he really did, it was just attack dogs that scared him. He had seen too many good men be ripped apart by dogs to really be comfortable with such large, powerful animals. Alfie, though, seemed nice. Hogan grabbed a stuffed leather pillow and threw it across the room. Alfie took off running. He grabbed the pillow and shook it around before prancing back to Hogan. His stub tail wagged so hard that his butt was shaking and he filled the room with happy barks. Hogan threw the pillow with all his mark and watched as the big dog tore across the room. He knocked aside a vase that shattered on impact.

Hogan winced. That sounded expensive and he had no idea how much it cost. Probably more than he made in a lifetime, because it looked old and Chinese. Alfie didn't understand. He just trotted back with the pillow and sat down like a very good boy. Hogan scratched his head and idly watched the door. He was more relaxed than he had felt in a long time and he missed someone walking up to the heavy door. Hogan heard the ancient oak creak open and he froze. Waffenschmidt wasn't supposed to be back for hours and there wasn't a way for a man to wire antiques like that. Besides, as far as Waffenschmidt knew, the dog was just being a dog.

A dark eyed man, short with longish brown hair, stalked into the room. "So. This is how he treats his prisoners."

"You know, he really referred to me as his guest." Hogan forced a smile. He vaguely remembered the guy as one of Waffenschmidt's drivers. "Maybe you should take your boss' lead and leave me alone. Prisoners tend to be in a better mood if you don't whip them half to death."

"The Count is not my... _boss_ ," the man sneered. He eyed a suddenly snarling Alfie. "Oh, look. He left his two flea bitten curs to keep each other warm in their kennel while he goes off to perform for the Major. Who, by the way, has not forgotten you, Colonel." He smiled and Hogan slowly realized who he was looking at. Fischer was a real pain in the ass. "He remembers what you have done to his operation and the good men you've killed."

"Good men?!" Hogan barked a laugh. "More like murdering, torturing bastards!"

Alfie snarled. The dog was like a completely new creature. His cropped ears were flat against his head and his hackles were straight up. Hogan shivered some. He knew enough about dogs to know that the beast was about to attack Fischer. Fischer didn't seem to care. He just stalked towards Hogan. Alfie growled. The dog took a step forwards and lowered his head. Fischer just laughed. He lunged out, like he was going to kick the dog, and Alfie sunk his teeth into Fischer's leg. The man bellowed. He grabbed his pistol and smacked at the dog's head. Alfie bit him again and again and blood splattered the room. Hogan yelled and tried to pull himself back, but his feet hurt and he had a hard time with his knees.

Fischer grabbed his pistol and shot the dog through his side. Alfie screamed and jerked, but he sunk his jaws into Fischer's arm and would not let go. Hogan hit the man with everything he had, desperate to try and save the only other friend that he had. By some miracle, he remembered to keep the manual hidden. Fischer pistol whipped Hogan across the face and shoved him into the the buttery soft leather. Hogan stayed there for a long moment. The dog lay in a bleeding heap on the carpet. He was breathing hard, but that wound looked horrible. He was going to die, just like so many other men that Hogan had seen. Maybe that damn dog was just a mutt, but he was kind and Hogan was hungry for kindness.

"I should kill you," Fischer whispered. "I really should kill you for what you did to me."

"Then do it!" Hogan hissed.

Fischer smiled and slapped Hogan across the face as he got up to leave. "No, I think I'll just leave you to the not so tender mercies of the Devil Dog. That's what his men called him, by the way. He's a beast, just like they are, and he'll kill you just as soon as he's bored."

"Go to hell!" Hogan snarled.

"I'll see you there," Fischer softly replied.

As a parting gesture, he doused the fire and left Hogan to shiver on the cold, bloody couch.


	11. Chapter 11

Waffenschmidt sighed as soon as he settled into the car. He lit a cigarette and took great pleasure in blowing smoke towards the driver's face. Yes, it was petty, but he was in a foul mood. Nursing a man through a fever that broke in the wee hours of the morning did not lend itself to a night of good sleep. He knew he was all rumpled from dozing on the couch and his hair was tangled on one side. He had dog hair on the clothes from last night and his uniform hadn't been pressed in at least a day. Greta, by the way, looked like she had slept like a baby all night long. Waffenschmidt's driver looked like he had slept well and had a nice breakfast to boot. Waffenschmidt had eaten half a piece of cheese toast whilst he was walking the dogs and he looked it.

"Do try to avoid the pot holes." Waffenschmidt draped himself across the backseat and took a long drag. "I might bring another prisoner back here to interview him in a more conducive location. Tell your boss that I'm not going to help him escape, I just want to confirm some information that my prisoner relayed. I have dogs and my own men - I don't need Hochstetter's help."

The man started, but kept his hands on the steering wheel. Waffenschmidt had the idea that he wasn't supposed to know that, but he was tired and grumpy. He pitied that annoying _Kommandant_ he was about to meet. Klink drove him mad - he reminded Waffenschmidt of a yappy terrier trying to please a German Shepherd and falling flat on his face every time - but he had the thing Waffenschmidt needed. That happened to be Hogan's men. Waffenschmidt looked at the package of cigarettes. He hated giving up one of Anderson's cartons, as he had so few left, but he had to make sacrifices for the war. Hanging on to the personal effects of a dead man wasn't going to bring him back.

They rolled up to the barbed wire gates and the driver shouted at the guards. Greta jerked her head up as the guards brought their own dogs over. She stood up in his lap and growled softly. Waffenschmidt just petted her. He wasn't going to let his crop eared white bitch get in a fight she couldn't win. Besides, he wanted to cross her with a German Shepherd one day and he wanted that animal to have finer blood than these animals. The guards waved them through after a minute and the car careened across the compound. Waffenschmidt tried not to wince. He liked his car and tried to drive when he could, but he had to keep up appearances. Besides, he had a problem with the other idiots on the road.

Klink came scurrying out if his office like a big rat. " _Brigadefuhrer_ von Waffenschmidt! I had no idea you were coming! Please, anything you need, just let me know and I'll make sure that you get it! Perhaps, if you find what you're looking for, you might put in a good word for me in Berlin? Perhaps with your father?"

"My father has made sure that my word will get you dead," Waffenschmidt growled. "The only reason why I'm not in Siberia right now is that someone needs to live in our house for tax purposes. Otherwise, I would be speaking Russian right now." He got out of the car and held the door open for Greta. "All I require is to speak with one of your prisoners, a Corporal Newkirk. Your Colonel Hogan informed me that he would likely know where the secret radio is hidden and I would like to find it before Hochstetter does."

"Anything you need, Herr _Brigadefuhrer_ \- "

Waffenschmidt held up his hands and clicked his tongue. "I have everything I need, Klink, but I would like you to get out of my way. I have things to do, places to be, and the last thing I want to do is spend all day talking to you. Greta, _heel_."

Greta stopped growling at Klink long enough to fall in step by his side. She was built different than the German Shepherds - she was lithe and graceful where they were built like blocks - and she carried herself like an attack dog. Klink looked like he was going to follow them, but Waffenschmidt stopped him with a glare. He tried to calm his hammering heart. It was easy to be brave when one had a full contingent of soldiers behind him, but it was a different story when it was just one man, a gun, and his dog. He watched as a group of prisoners parted around him. One of them, a short man with a red cap, reached out to pet Greta, but paused when he saw her owner.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Waffenschmidt held out the carton. "Be careful with these. One of these is not what it seems and I would hate for it to go up in smoke."

An Englishman snatched the carton and dug through it. "Why are you handing Louis these old things? Why, they're from the last war! They're stale and dry and nasty! Look, mate, we might be prisoners, but that doesn't mean we're going to - _Oh_. That's why you did that. Do you want these back?"

"Why don't you smoke one so it looks normal?" Waffenschmidt sighed. He took the carton pack and struck a match. "I find them to be quite comforting. And do be careful with the plain one in your hand. Your Colonel is a pain in my ass." He leaned against the building and winced when the rough wood scratched him. "He has a fever. I was up all night nursing him and I think it finally broke. However, a certain Major has seen through my little plan. That means we need a radio in the woods. near a hollow log by the rust red stream. The one that gets filthy every time it rains because some idiot doused it in rocket fuel."

"Hold up." An African man raised his hand. " _We_? Do you have a mouse in your pocket or something?"

Waffenschmidt looked around and turned his collar up to fight the cold. "I might have told Hochstetter that there is a radio hidden outside of camp."

"You _didn't_." The man groaned and rubbed his face. "But of course you did. And why are you here - aren't you supposed to be in England?!"

"There was a change of plans," Waffenschmidt replied. He glanced towards the Frenchman. "You can pet her. She's quite tame unless I happen to order her to kill. Her name is Greta. Hogan is a little afraid of her, but I assure you that she won't attack you unless you threaten me."

"I'm so comforted," the Frenchman drawled. "Well? Is the note legit?"

"It is." Newkirk shoved it in his pocket. "Blimey, I though Hochstetter killed him! And you mean to tell me that he's still alive?!"

"But very sick." Waffenschmidt shrugged and turned. "The radio should be placed by the stream by tonight at the latest. I can distract Klink and many of the guards with Greta and a fine dinner. Hogan should be fine for a few hours, a day at the most. I do have a housekeeping staff and only two of them are Gestapo. Hochstetter seems to think that I'm not a loyal German."

"I wonder what gave him that idea," Newkirk muttered.

A thin blonde man cleared his throat. "Uh, Mr. Count? Sir? Did Colonel Hogan say anything about me?"

"Shut up, Carter," Newkirk muttered.

Waffenschmidt winced. "Anything he said, he said when he had a high fever. Much of it was directed at me and it questioned my parentage. He seems to think that Greta and I are half siblings. We are "sons of bitches" as he said. As for you, Carter... He is in a great deal of pain and has been talking out of his mind. I wouldn't put any stock into what he said, but it was... very _rude_. That is all I will be saying on the matter because, as I said, he had a fever and he's been talking out of his mind."

Carter winced. "It's my fault, really. I... I messed up."

Waffenschmidt touched his hand and smiled sadly. "I know how you feel, trust me. I... did something similar long ago, but your Colonel survived. My Captain did not." He turned and snapped his fingers. "Oh, and Newkirk? I'll take you to meet the Colonel as soon as Hochstetter gets done with the radio business."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those curious, Anderson taught Waffenschmidt how to drive with a captured jeep. Neither of them had any understanding of proper driver etiquette. So, while Waffenschmidt _can_ drive, he drives like a maniac who has no idea where the brakes are.


	12. Chapter 12

Newkirk stared at the little paper with the neat, loopy cursive. It was the Colonel's, alright. Colonel Hogan had the most distinctive handwriting Newkirk had ever seen. It would be damn near impossible to duplicate it without one of those weird stylus things that used two pens at once. This was written in pencil and it came in a package of old British cigarettes. It was delivered by a certain kraut who was supposed to be in England. At least he wasn't in full Nazi get up this time. He looked like just another tired private citizen with a big white dog. Greta looked like she was friendly enough, but Newkirk had learned that kraut dogs could never really be trusted. The German Shepherds in this camp could be sweet, docile angels one second and vicious demons the next.

He was pretty sure that big white bitch was about the same way.

LeBeau was waiting for him back in Barracks 2. "Well, is it real?"

"As real as it will ever be," Newkirk sighed. He tucked the note into his pocket and looked around. "Well? Do we believe him?"

"I do!" Carter piped up. "He seems real nice. Well, for a kraut. He didn't say anything mean when we were in those uniforms, not like Hochstetter did. And besides, he has a note from Hogan and it's in the Colonel's handwriting. Plus, Hochstetter has been sniffing around the woods, too."

"Yeah," Kinchloe muttered. "It's scuttled our operation for the time being."

Newkirk hated these kinds of choices. Without Colonel Hogan, the Heroes had been forced to be much more careful. They took fewer risks and tried to flip fewer spies. The spies Hogan had flipped - a Siphord - still stayed on, but Newkirk had cut him out of the loop unless he had too. The man understood - Hogan was MIA and Newkirk didn't want to waste what was one of his only assets. So he had to be very careful with what little he had and part of that was Siphord. The man came and went as he pleased, feeding Hochstetter enough worthless information that he was kept busy. Newkirk didn't think he could use Siphord to feed Hochstetter this stupid radio story because that might tie him to Waffenschmidt.

Speaking of, that kraut had horrible cigarettes. Newkirk still lit one of them up and leaned against the worn barracks walls. Everyone around him ignored him - Kinchloe was getting a radio put together, LeBeau was cooking something horrible on the stove, and Carter was wasting his time on a pair of socks. Newkirk couldn't get in touch with Siphord because there was a radio detection truck sitting right beside Klink's office. Newkirk didn't have the sheer guts it took to blow up the truck with fireworks and call the man right during the chaos, so he had to rely on things like pigeons and smuggling out notes in the dog collar. He couldn't exactly do that at the drop of a hat, so he had to wait.

LeBeau gave him a long look. "Are you going to leave any of those for me?"

"No." Newkirk stubbed out the one he was on and quickly lit another one. "Besides, you wouldn't like them. They're terrible."

"Yeah, right. I'll bet it's like my cooking - you love it and all you do is complain," LeBeau grumbled.

Kinch sighed as he finished with the radio. "Any idea where Waffenschmidt wants us to put this crazy thing or do we just need to guess?"

"Near the place Marya spilled rocket fuel that one time," Newkirk replied. "Apparently, there's a hollow log and that's where that crazy kraut wants us to hide it. Not that Hochstetter's going to buy this crazy story. It's a little too stupid even more him."

He sat back on his bed and tried not to panic too much. Newkirk hated watching Kinch vanish into that tunnel and wonder if he was going to come back. Newkirk had watched Hogan and Carter go into that tunnel. Carter and Hogan came back hours later and the factory still stood. Hogan had damn near lost that hand from the machinery he had been trying to destroy, all because Carter had screwed up with the explosives. Then Hochstetter had came a few hours later and dragged Hogan out of bed. That had been the last Newkirk had ever seen of the man. He had thought that Hogan was dead, but now Newkirk was holding proof that, not only was the Colonel alive, he was apparently getting medical treatment.

Hochstetter came storming into the barracks some forty five minutes later. "Where did this radio come from?!"

"Radio?" Newkirk asked. He looked up and tried to look just as innocent as he could. "What radio? Think we could get the BBC on it? I'm tired of your German propaganda broadcasts. Berlin Betty might sound cute, but it's not a patch on hearing your own people!"

"What makes you think I'm going to give you a two way radio?" Hochstetter sneered. He held part of the radio up and gave them all a long look. "Someone's trying to help your Colonel. Not that I blame him, he does seem like he's the kind of man to inspire a great deal of loyalty. I'm not going to fault you for whatever you did - it's entirely possible that your Colonel had some kind of backup plan. And it's also possible that Klink is enough of a fool to miss a small hole in the wire. His guards are certainly stupid enough to do so and that your colonel exploited these. So. Where did the radio come from?"

"I have no idea," Newkirk replied. That was the truth of things, he didn't know where Kinch had gotten the parts. "And I didn't know the Colonel had a radio in the woods. Like I said, I would like to catch the BBC."

He did miss the BBC. It wasn't always safe to catch the radio and he couldn't always get a copy of the London Times. Any reminder of home was a good one to him. Newkirk watched as Hochstetter tore around the barracks. It was clear that he didn't buy Waffenschmidt's story - and, to be honest, it wasn't a very good one - and he was looking for _something_. Anything. Something that might give him the evidence that he was looking for. Newkirk did hope that Hochstetter didn't ask him about the cigarettes. Waffenschmidt was under surveillance and it was probably a crime for German nobility to talk to those pesky lower classes. Newkirk didn't need any trouble, so he didn't needle the man any.

It was hard, though. He hated Hochstetter and he wanted to punch the man when Hochstetter knifed a poster of Ginger Rogers.

That was the only nice thing in that camp and now it was ruined. Now Newkirk was going to have to do something else to add a little color to this world of weathered grey and olive drab.


	13. Chapter 13

Waffenschmidt started on his second pack of cigarettes and considered reaching for the _Kommandant_ 's very expensive schnapps. He crumpled the first pack in his hands before tossing it in the wastebasket. For once, the yappy terrier inhabiting the human body in front of him didn't say anything. The last time Waffenschmidt had tried smoking this much, he had been kindly but firmly escorted to the porch and given a bucket full of sand. Apparently, Klink wasn't a smoker and his secretary, Hilda, didn't appreciate it when someone filled their office with "clouds of toxic blue smoke". Waffenschmidt understood, but he had to calm his nerves and it was this or drink himself into a stupor.

Hochstetter stormed into the room. "You're playing a game with me, _Brigadefuhrer_ , and I don't enjoy it. Now tell me how that radio got there."

"I told you," Waffemschmidt adjusted himself so he was slightly more comfortable on Klink's desk, "Colonel Hogan put it there. Where he got it from, I haven't asked yet. I will get there when I get there - your crowbar is the reason why I'm currently playing doctor."

"Colonel Hogan is alive?!" Klink stood up quickly and grabbed his antique helmet before it was knocked to the floor. "Why - why I was told that he died under questioning! Shot while trying to escape!"

"I only told you that so you would shut up," Hochstetter growled. "But I wish we had!"

"Easy," Waffenschmidt drawled. He slid off the desk and kicked over a basket full of papers. "That's one of the reasons why you only got his name, rank, and serial number. I, on the other hand, have gotten a secret radio and a place where the wires are loose in the fence. At the very least, that keeps dangerous prisoners within the confines of this camp. Your crowbar has a very sick man in my home - a sick man who hates me and makes for an awful patient. In fact, he's so sick that I'm going to need another prisoner to manage him. I was thinking of the Englishman - the Corporal Newkirk, I think. He seems intelligent enough and he speaks German quite well."

"Why should I give you that prisoner?" Hochstetter growled. He narrowed his eyes and took a step forwards. "You're already a small traitor to the Fatherland - why not make it a big one?!"

"Yes, because I choose to not run with men who behave like dogs," Waffenschmidt replied. "There's something you don't know about the upper classes, _Major_ , and perhaps Colonel Klink would be kind enough to explain this to you after I'm gone. You see, your nobility - the Counts, Barons, Baronesses, and the like - we know how to guide the lower classes and protect them when they cannot protect themselves. We know how to guide a man through gentleness with just enough firmness to ensure that they know we mean business. You, on the other hand, think nothing of forcing men to walk through mud and snow when the honorable thing is to to allow them to bunk with you."

"I would rather freeze to death than share a bed with an Allied prisoner!" Hochstetter snarled.

"You can do that - on the Russian Front," Waffenschmidt brightly replied. He gave that man a bright, happy smile. "I could arrange that for you, by the way. Just give me the word and I'll call my father!"

"You wouldn't _dare_ ," Hochstetter hissed. "You wouldn't dare!"

Waffenschmidt kept to himself. He poured himself a glass of schnapps, ignored the way Klink yelped, and knocked it back in one gulp. So Becker was right - the way he was smoking ruined the taste. Well, it wasn't like he was drinking because he liked the way this tasted - he was drinking because he needed to calm his shaking hands. He wasn't Colonel Rolf Becker - he didn't have nerves of steel and the ability to stare down pissy Russian commandos. He was just a man and he was tangling with people that could kill him. Hochstetter paced around the office before he opened the window and dumped Waffenschmidt's last cigarette in a glass of water.

"I can't think with that nasty thing!" Hochstetter growled. He glared at Waffenschmidt and grabbed at his jacket. "Either you deal with your nasty little habit or I'm going to do it for you."

Waffenschmidt rolled his eyes as he walked towards the door. He had better things to do than listen to Hochstetter caterwaul at him. Besides, he was a Count - he didn't have to listen to some peasant bawl at him. He stalked towards the barracks and rapped on the door before pushing right in. He knew he looked rough. Waffenschmidt didn't give a damn what they thought about him - he just wanted to grab Newkirk and get the man before he went mad. He wasn't Rolf - he wasn't going to smile and play nice with the Gestapo while they were walking all over his toes. He had his pride and he was going to make sure that pride wasn't scarred up by some pain in the ass peasant.

"You're coming with me. Get packed." Waffenschmidt grabbed Newkirk by the arm. Newkirk jumped, like he was going for the knife, and Greta snarled like the demon dog she was. "Don't try anything, Corporal, she's killed more Nazis than you ever will."

Newkirk jerked back. "You could have asked nicely, you know!"

"We need to go before I shoot a Gestapo Major," Waffenschmidt growled. "Hochstetter has stepped on my toes one too many times and I'm simply not going to take it."

"Blimey, you're crazy." Newkirk grabbed a battered duffle bag and hurried to the door. "Are you sure Colonel Hogan is alright?"

"Pray." Waffenschmidt bit his bottom lip and opened the passenger door for Newkirk. "Greta, get in the back. You - watch for Gestapo. I'm not in the mood to be asked for papers right now when they damn well know who I am!"

Waffenschmidt waited until the door was closed before he gunned it.


	14. Chapter 14

Hogan curled up on the couch and tried not to get too cold and piss all over himself. The dead dog in the corner was making him want to throw up and he had no idea what he was going to do when Waffenschmidt came back. The more irrational part of his mind thought that Waffenschmidt was going to punish him. It was what Hochstetter would have done - punished him for the blood and the broken vase. Hogan had managed to keep the _Stuka_ manual hidden, though. He hadn't done it with any fancy plan, either. He had sat on it and Fischer never tried to grab him up. If that had happened, Hogan didn't know what he would do. Fischer might have actually found the evidence that he needed to actually arrange a date with the firing squad.

Someone knocked on the door. Hogan just ducked his head and tried not to shiver too much. He really did need to use the toilet - Waffenschmidt had been gone for hours and none of the staff had bothered to come in the study. There was a good chance they weren't allowed in the study. Hochstetter didn't allow anyone in his study and Hogan only knew this because he had been dragged to that miserable little hovel. Hochstetter hadn't tried to force himself on Hogan - he saved that for women - but he had left Hogan to shiver in a coal cellar for a few nights and then punished him for the dust he got on the carpet. Hochstetter might have promised that the pain would stop when the information did, but Hogan never trusted him on that.

The pain might have stopped, yes, but Hogan would be dancing on the end of a rope when it did.

"Blimey, governor!" Newkirk turned him over. "What happened?!"

"Fischer showed up." Hogan coughed some and closed his eyes. He hurt all over and now that he was hallucinating, it was nice to see a friendly face. "Hey, are you real or not? Because if you are real, I'm sitting on a very nice breakdown of the new _Stuka_ bomber. You might be interested in it. I know London would be. But if you're not real or if you're one of Hochstetter's goons, then I'm a blooming idiot who needs to be locked away in a padded room for my own security."

"Uh, Colonel? I think you've hit your head," Newkirk softly said. His rough, cool hands stroked over Hogan's face and he prodded all over. "Are you seeing double? Can you even see at all?"

"What happened?" Waffenschmidt walked into the room and swore when he saw the mess. "What the hell happened in here?! Where's the dog?! Why's my vase in a million pieces?!"

"Fischer showed up," Hogan softly said. He leaned into Newkirk's shoulder and watched him with dull eyes. "He shot your dog. We were playing fetch and... well, it kinda got knocked over. Sorry."

Waffenschmidt sighed and rubbed his face. He looked awful, like he had gotten into a fight, and Hogan wanted to ask what he had done. Who had he pissed off? Was that person - whoever they were - come after Hogan when they realized they couldn't hurt Waffenschmidt? Hogan just watched the huge mess unfold around him. He was so tired. He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry or beg the universe forgiveness for whatever he had done. Hogan had no idea what he was going to do when the universe asked for what he had borrowed. His luck had just fallen out, he figured. There was no telling what Waffenschmidt might do to him. Hogan gripped the thick, soft material with both hands.

"Hey." Waffenschmidt sat beside him and stroked his face. "Hey. What's wrong with you?"

"I don't feel so good," Hogan softly said. He looked up and tried to decide if the man was real or not. "Hey, Fischer shot your dog. I thought he was going to shoot me. He doesn't like me very much."

"Yes, I figured that," Waffenschmidt sighed. He turned to Newkirk. "Help me get him up. He's not walking very well right now - I think he has something like trench foot. His circulation is off right now, so his feet need to be propped up. And we're going to have to give him a warm bath and possibly an oil massage. That's what I used to give the horses in the Great War, so it should work with a man. And unlike a horse, he's not going to drop dead just because he got a little mud in his system or didn't take a shit for a couple of days. I hope."

"I would hope that the Colonel isn't a horse!" Newkirk yelped. He rested back on his heels. "Do we need to move him now, sir?"

"Yes." Waffenschmidt smiled apologetically. "Do you want the shoulders or the feet? He's going to need to use the toilet I imagine, but I don't think he's going to want too much help. We need to keep him off of his face."

Hogan tuned him out after a few minutes. He really was tired and he hated being picked up under the arm pits, but how else was he supposed to walk to the bathroom? He didn't want to walk. It hurt to walk and he was so tired of the pain. Waffenschmidt panted and grunted as he half carried and half dragged Hogan to the bathroom. At least Newkirk had the grace to keep quiet. Hogan didn't know if he would have ever lived that one down if Newkirk actually said something to him. Waffenschmidt left him alone to use the bathroom, which was very nice, and then he almost fell flat on his face. No one came in there for the longest time, so Hogan just curled up on the cold tile.

"Colonel!" Waffenschmidt pushed into the room and dragged him up. "Why didn't you say something?!"

"I have my pride." Hogan grabbed the carved marble table and glared at him. "I don't need to ask for help. I would have dragged myself up sooner rather than later. I don't need you to come in and get me every time I fall over!"

"You could have died today!" Waffenschmidt hissed. "From now on, I'm not going to let you out of my sight!"

"I'll kill you!" Hogan hissed. "Leave me alone, you filthy kraut!"

Waffenschmidt sighed and stepped back. Hogan collapsed back, almost hitting his head. He wanted to lash out, to hurt someone, _anyone_ , but all he could do was lie there and glare at the jackbooted kraut looking at him like he was a particularly naughty child. Hogan grabbed the edge of the tub and tried to drag himself up. His arms shook with the effort and, almost seconds later, they gave out and he rested against the whitewashed cabinets. He glanced up at the tall German, watching him just as closely as he was being watched himself. He hated this, feeling like he was an animal in the zoo. Maybe he was on the endangered species list, right up there beside the thylacine.

"I'm sorry?" Hogan offered. "I... I lost my temper. I shouldn't have done that."

"Well, I stormed out on a Gestapo Major, so I think we're even," Waffenschmidt sighed. He smiled sadly as he helped Hogan up. "Just don't try that again, please. Let's get you to bed. You sound like you need it."

Hogan did and he wished he wasn't so pathetically grateful.


	15. Chapter 15

Waffenschmidt waited for Hogan to get over his little fit before he helped him back up and waited for him to brush his teeth. He could tell that it was humiliating the man to have Waffenschmidt hold him up while he accomplished the most simple tasks. A child could brush his teeth on his own, but Hogan needed someone to hold him up while he brushed, flossed, and rinsed. Waffenschmidt looked up at the ceiling and counted the pine knots as he waited. He wished he could give Hogan his privacy, but that just wasn't an option. And dumping this job on Newkirk would just make the humiliation that much worse. Better the supposed enemy doing this than the man he had fought beside.

Hogan cleared his throat. "Right. I think I'm done."

"Alright, Colonel." Waffenschmidt tossed Hogan's arm over his shoulder and supported him as he hobbled towards the master bedroom. "How are your feet feeling? Do you think the circulation has come back yet?"

"Feels like I'm walking on pins and needles," Hogan sighed. "They don't ache, though. Is that good?"

"Yes. It means that I might not have to amputate." It wasn't a joke and Waffenschmidt kept his voice grim and businesslike. "Colonel, are you allergic to penicillin? I think that if we give you that, it might speed up the healing process. The sooner you can walk on your own, the sooner you can start with light physical exercise. Like riding. Tell me, Colonel, have you ever ridden a horse before?"

"I rode a pony at a birthday party when I was eight," Hogan suggested. "Does that answer your question?"

Actually, it did. It meant that Waffenschmidt was going to need to find a nice warmblood gelding instead of his Polish Arabian stallions. Hogan might not get the joke if he was thrown on top of a delicate stallion and the horse wouldn't appreciate it, either. Waffenschmidt liked his horses and he wanted to keep them just as tame as they currently were. Besides, he had thought it would be fun if he rode through the forest with his newfound partner. Anderson had never ridden horses before he found Waffenschmidt and he hadn't had enough time to learn how before he was killed. Waffenschmidt's smile fell. He didn't know if Anderson would hate him for what he was doing and he didn't want to know the answer.

They came to the master bedroom and Waffenschmidt helped him settle into one of the overstuffed chairs. It had been all the rage twenty years ago and, for the longest time, Waffenschmidt had draped Anderson's uniform across the back in the vain hope that his lover might walk through the door like he had never left. Hogan seemed to know that he was sitting in something fancy, but he relaxed soon. Waffenschmidt wondered if it showed in his face. He left Hogan after a few seconds and got a basin of warm water. He stripped off his fine linen shirt before he knelt down beside the Allied colonel and started giving him a warm foot bath. In another world, this would be humiliating, but he cared for this man and wished that he would be healthy again.

Newkirk just shoved the door open. "Maybe I should have knocked."

"That would have been nice, yes." Waffenschmidt ignored him for the most part and wiped off the excess water with a rough towel. "It's supposed to help the circulation. So, is it helping?"

"I feel like I'm stepping on warm pins and needles?" Hogan asked. Then he frowned and tensed a little. "Help me up, will you?"

"You heard the man." Newkirk got up and grinned. "And might I say, you do have a nice body. I never thought I would see one of your lot stripped down like that, though. What's the big occasion? Hitler's birthday?"

Waffenschmidt rolled his eyes. "No, I just didn't want to get my clothes wet, thank you."

Hogan cleared his throat. "Uh, guys? Will you help me up please or do I need to fall flat on my face?"

Waffenschmidt smiled, but he pushed the bowl aside and helped Hogan struggle to his feet. Newkirk pulled on the other side and between the two of them, they got the Colonel on his feet. Hogan swayed a little bit, but soon he gained his balance. Then he concentrated and slowly put one foot in front of the other. Waffenschmidt held Hogan's hand like he was a child and when he wobbled, Waffenschmidt was there to catch him. Hogan walked all the way to the bed before he tripped over the rug and all but collapsed into Waffenschmidt's arms.

It was just an impulse, but Waffenschmidt couldn't stop himself. He brushed a gentle kiss against the stunned man's lips and pulled back with a shy smile. Hogan stared at him like he had been struck by lightning. Neither one of them said anything for the longest time. Waffenschmidt just held the man close, inhaling his clean scent and the way he clung to the fine clothes Waffenschmidt could afford. It slowly occurred to him that Hogan might have never been kissed by a man before. Anderson had told him that it was a minor taboo, mostly for religious reasons, but since neither one of them had ever believed, it wasn't a problem. Maybe Hogan believed in that sort of thing and that was why he wasn't saying anything.

Newkirk cleared his throat. "So. Sleeping arrangements. How are we going to do this?"

"He'll bed down with me." Waffenschmidt smiled a little. "No offense, Corporal, but I think he's been humiliated enough and the hot water bottles will only give him a fever. I learned that one the hard way."

"Alright." Hogan sighed and settled against the headboard. He waited until Newkirk had left before turning to Waffenschmidt. "You kissed me!"

"Indeed." Waffenschmidt smiled and took his hand. "And I would have liked to do more, but not now."

Hogan gave him a long look as he tucked himself under the blankets. "Just... warn me next time? I wanna make up my mind if I enjoy it or not next time, please."


	16. Chapter 16

Hogan had never been kissed by a man before. It was nice, he thought, but different. It was far nicer than being kissed and groped by Marya, that was for sure. At least Waffenschmidt hadn't forced him against the wall and tried to inspect his throat via Marya's tongue. Holding hands was sweet. It was very innocent, he thought, far more innocent than the wild trysts he had had with Tiger and Lilli. Some of those had been fighting, almost, and he had worn the bites and bruises with pride. Hogan enjoyed kissing, bit it wasn't something that he did very often in Stalag 13. He could only bother Hilda so much. She had a fiance now, a nice man who owned one of the few wineries that hadn't been destroyed by the war yet.

He rested his head on Waffenschmidt's shoulder and looked at the way their hands were entwined. Waffenschmidt's hands were rougher than his, coarse in the way that suggested he truly did know how to ride a horse. The man's gaze was distant, though, and his eyes were half closed. Hogan just sat there with him, cuddling against him and enjoying the warmth. They had done something like this in Stalag 13. It got cold there and the heaters were poor enough to barely even exist. No matter how many cracks the POWs patched, ten more were there to take their place. Hogan had slept in a pile with his men before, but this was different. They were in a proper bed, for one, and he was right beside a man who had literally given a bath.

Hogan was used to other men seeing him wash by now. Open showers took a lot to get used too, but it was that or stay filthy. Besides, the German NCO showers usually had hot water, while the POW showers were usually cold. Kinch could sometimes jimmy the valve, but they had to be careful not to get caught. Whoever got the cold shower was usually decided by a weekly lottery. Hogan, being an officer, took his baths in the middle of the day when the water was the warmest and the showers were usually deserted. He didn't think someone had ever washed him, though, nor had they ever combed through his hair with gentle fingers. Maybe he was being a fool, but he really did think this crazy kraut cared for him.

Hogan wondered why.

He woke up bright and early in the morning, half expecting guards to be shouting at him for missing roll call. Hogan rolled over and raised an arm to shield his face, but only soft sunlight and billowing drapes greeted him. Hogan sat up. Or, rather, _tried_ to sit up. Waffenschmidt had wrapped his arms around Hogan and seemed to want to hold him so tight he might never escape. Hogan just stayed there. He wiggled after a second. Waffenschmidt was still out of it. His face was nearly completely slack and his eyes fluttered like he was dreaming. Hogan appreciated that he was getting good sleep - rest was incredibly important - but he wanted to get up and take a leak, among other things.

Newkirk knocked before pushing the door open. "Hey, I found this in the study. Want me to get it to England?"

"Yeah." Hogan looked at the manual. "The sooner, the better. You should be able to get it past the guards by putting it in your coat or something. They usually don't check, especially if you get there early enough in the morning."

"Yeah, there's one problem with that," Newkirk replied. He grinned and tapped the sleeping kraut's shoulder. "Why, he's out cold! We wouldn't get him this asleep if LeBeau doctored his coffee! I wonder what's wrong with him."

"Easy." Hogan rolled his eyes. "He's tired."

"You know, you could have been about it," Newkirk muttered.

"That was a Carter question and you know it." Hogan managed to peel his way out of Waffenschmidt's arms and sighed softly. "Help me up, will you? I need to use the latrine."

Newkirk grinned softly, but at least he obliged. Hogan could put a little more weight on his feet now, but they still hurt and he didn't fancy his chances if he had to run for it. The stairs, too, were out of the question. At least this fancy house had modern plumbing. Hogan didn't know how he would take it if he had to wobble out to the garden every time he needed to go. As it was, he could walk down to the bath and back just as long as he rested every few seconds. Hogan was still sweating, though, and his legs were shaking as he settled back against the headboard. Maybe walking that far hadn't been such a good idea after all. His feet hurt something awful and he was so tired.

Waffenschmidt blinked his baby blues open a few minutes later. "Colonel Hogan? You stayed?"

"Right where you left me," Hogan teased. "You really know how to show a guy a good time, you know. Anyone ever tell you you squeeze like an octopus?"

"I need coffee." Waffenschmidt stood up, completely ignorant of the way his hair was mussed and tangled. "I really need coffee for this conversation. You're a very fine man, Colonel Hogan, and the most drop dead gorgeous man I've ever seen, but I need coffee to keep up with you this morning. And a cigarette. In that order. You're welcome to join me, by the way."

"What kind of coffee and what kind of cigarettes?" Hogan asked. He didn't want to think of the way those words made him feel. Not yet, at least.

"The German kind." Waffenschmidt shook his head. "Corporal, you're welcome to join us, too. Breakfast in a few minutes in the kitchen. I'm sure Heidi will be more than happy to fix our breakfast, provided that we don't have extra guests showing up."

"About that," Newkirk quickly said. "Marya's at your front door along with some bloke named Hans Schuyer."

Waffenschmidt went very pale and swore under his breath. "Please tell me this is a sick joke."

"Yeah, I'm not." Newkirk shrugged. "She's looking for Hogan, by the way. And that Schuyer guy looked at me like I was a prime cut of beef on Market Street."

Waffenschmidt quickly got up and cursed again. "Thank you for letting me know. I'll see that they will leave us shortly, because that _animal_ isn't staying here!"


	17. Chapter 17

Waffenschmidt wanted to scream and throw something at the wall, but he couldn't do that and keep face in front of the two Americans. He swallowed the snarl that threatened to break over his face. Waffenschmidt glanced towards Newkirk and winced when he saw the very clear outline of a book right in the other man's breast pocket. This wasn't going to go well with Marya - she was going to want the new _Stuka_ manual for Russia, while Waffenschmidt wanted to send that thing to England. Speaking of, it was probably time to invest in a radio. Possibly two way, if he could get it. Using pigeons to talk to some Danzig really wasn't something that belonged in 1943.

In fact, it was probably dated for a man in _1843_ , but who was asking?

He marched down to his front door and threw it wide open. "Get off my porch before I let my dogs eat you."

"Waffie, darling!" Marya yelled. She swanned in like she owned the place and turned around slowly, her fur cape billowing out behind her like she was some Austrian princess. "My, my - you haven't changed this place one bit! Same old rug, same old table, same old lack of a wife. Tell me, has anything changed around here since the Roman invasion?"

"Get out of my parlor and take that blonde devil with you," Waffenschmidt growled. His eyes narrowed and Greta snarled softly as she trotted into the room. "Schuyer, you are not welcome here and nor will you ever be. Get out of my house and never come back. Otherwise, my dog is going to eat you and no tortured French chemist is going to bring you back." He forced a sickly sweet smile over his face. "So please, Herr _Teufelsmann_ , get out of my house and never come back. I should have killed you when I had the chance."

"Temper, temper," Schuyer softly said. He leaned forwards and cleaned his glasses as he stepped over the threshold. "I saw the English slave you had working here. How much? He has the prettiest blue eyes and, while his confirmation is quite lacking, it's workable."

Waffenschmidt gripped the back of the couch. "If you ask me that again, I'm going to kill you."

"And you would die for it," Schuyer replied. He swept back his white blonde hair out of his face and eyed the snarling dog. "I saw your pathetic mutts, by the way. I don't know what you're breeding for, but you're clearly not getting it. Why breed lurchers when you can have something fine like a pedigreed Doberman or perhaps a German Pinscher. Why must you keep an _unerwünschte Rasse_ like this - this - _Asian farm dog_?! My dear count - you are one of the wealthiest men in all of Germany! You don't have to settle for this crop eared white bitch! You could have something fine, something stunning, something that truly fits your status as a man of a thousand year lineage. You are a Junker - you deserve far better than this."

"I happen to like Greta," Waffenschmidt evenly replied. He watched as Greta followed Marya up the stairs. "I plan to use her to improve the German Shepherd somewhat - once we stopped adding wolf blood, I noticed that the breed was starting to loose some of its drive. As you might have noticed, I like dogs and I like horses. Other human beings? Not so much. I especially don't like mad scientists who experiment on living human beings."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Schuyer dryly replied. He sat down on an embroidered chair and placed his feet up on the coffee table. "I merely do as I am told. It's a nice pay check. You should try it sometime. If you're not too busy taking your father's money and wasting it on dogs, horses, wine, and songs."

Waffenschmidt rested back on the couch and lit one of his German cigarettes. "I want you to get out of my house, please. I have no love for you and I would rather like to see you dead. After all, your little experiments killed someone very close to me."

"That was twenty years ago!" Schuyer laughed. "Don't tell me you're still upset over that, Waffenschmidt!"

"His name was Jacob Anderson," Waffenschmidt grimly replied. " _Captain_ Jacob Anderson."

"I don't care if he was Eva Braun," Schuyer growled. "He died. It's over. There is nothing you can do about it, so why are you bothering me over it? The man is dead! He's an American - so why bother even getting upset over it? You might have cared for him like you care for one of your dogs, but I don't think you can love such a man like that. Even if you could, do you think it would be morally right to love something that is so much lesser than you are? I never have thought so and, besides, I get paid quite well for what I do. Even if I do things that you might consider Gestapo. That's a very fine thing, coming from a former SS man. Tell me, Herr Waffenschmidt, how many men did you torture and kill?"

"I mostly filed paperwork," Waffenschmidt replied. It wasn't a lie. "And, by the way, it's very nice to have a wealthy father who buys you rank. For one, I didn't have to go Academy."

Schuyer rolled his light blue eyes. "I imagine that you must be quite... bored, sitting here and passing judgement on everyone else."

Waffenschmidt didn't take the bait and belatedly realized that he was wearing only his rumpled nightshirt and a pair of very old, very stained riding pants. His hair probably looked like a hen had made a nest in it and he needed his breakfast. Plus coffee - the strong coffee his brother had bought for him in Tunisia. Waffenschmidt got up and left his unwanted guest to his own devices. He could always get Lilly or Hilda, but the last thing he wanted to do was subject them to the inevitable advances of that old fool. Waffenschmidt knew how to use the stove and he needed to calm his nerves. He used the copper pots, as those made the water boil faster, and he tried not to bash things around too much.

Hilda would kill him if he put a dint in one of his precious pots.

"What are you doing?!" Schuyer asked. He stood at the top of the stairs and almost doubled over laughing. "A German man of your rank doing these domestic duties?! You need a wife!"

"I need a wife like you need a hole in your head," Waffenschmidt growled. "Would you like some coffee, by the way? I promise to hold the rat poison."

Schuyer walked down the stairs and pulled out a rancid cigar as he sat down on the table. "No, this I must see. A German nobleman making coffee in his own kitchen while he has an English slave and housekeeping staff? An English slave that he won't sell? Might you want to make that English slave your little wife, hmm? Not that I mind such things, but you should really force that pain in the ass to make your coffee for you. Oh, and, do watch the rat poison. One day, he'll use it on you."

Waffenschmidt didn't doubt it. He just counted for ten and tried not to douse Schuyer in scalding water.


	18. Chapter 18

Hogan had no idea who Schuyer was, but he knew that Marya was bad news. Marya really could pick them, too. Other than Hogan and sometimes LeBeau, her other partners were usually high ranking Nazis. Hogan was starting to think that she had a thing for men in power and liked the way her face looked when reflected by a death's head. Waffenschmidt had also been a surprise - the guy was just one step above colonel and, if he was to believe, a paper pusher who doubled as a courier for the Eastern Front. It wasn't like the guy was going to be getting close to Hitler. This new guy - this Schuyer - was probably something else. Newkirk certainly seemed rattled and he was one of the calmest men that Hogan knew.

"What's the deal with Schuyer?" Hogan asked. He pulled himself up as best he could and sighed. "He's gotta be pretty bad if he's got Waffenschmidt rattled like that. What did he seem like to you?"

"Being honest, Colonel?" Newkirk asked. "That man gives me the creeps. It was like he was looking at a show dog. That, or a prize pig."

Hogan didn't doubt it. He had never seen Waffenschmidt get that upset before. Even when Hogan had pointed a gun at him, Waffenschmidt had been calm and almost in control. It probably came from playing chicken with the Gestapo all the time. Hogan wished he could ask the man what was wrong, but he had the feeling that Waffenschmidt was going to keep that close to his chest. Whoever this Schuyer was and however he knew Waffenschmidt, it probably went back to World War One and they tried to kill each other over the same girl or something. Hogan frowned. Did Waffenschmidt like girls? He had obviously been lying about having a wife, which wasn't that surprising, as Klink did it a few times, but it was odd for a man of Waffenschmidt's age and rank to be so... _single_.

"Hogan, darling! It's been too long since I've seen you and this time I've come back from the Eastern Front just for you!"

Hogan rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head. "Hogan isn't here! Hogan's dead!"

Behind them both, Greta growled softly. For once, Hogan was glad that Waffenschmidt liked big, nasty looking dogs. Greta looked like she could pack punch if she felt like it. Hogan had known a family with a big, white pit bull when he was in Ohio. That beast could go from sweet as pie to trying to eat your face in two seconds flat. It was looking like Greta could do the same thing and actually have a reason for it. Hogan touched a pale scar on his right forearm. There was a reason he hated big dogs and, for once, Hochstetter wasn't it.

Marya didn't take the message and sat down beside him. "My, my, you look terrible. And what are you doing out of uniform? And all those bruises? Have you been a bad boy for this wicked old count? Not that, between you and me, he's very fun. When I was here, all he wanted to do was cry about his dead boyfriend. It's been twenty years, Hogan darling, and he's still in love with a dead man! Well, dead to him, anyways. But enough about that feral dog and more about you and me. Tell me Hogan, did you miss me?"

"Like I would miss a broken leg," Hogan growled. He pushed himself away from the fur clad Russian and patted the bed so Greta would get up beside him. "I don't want to talk to you, Marya. I don't feel good as it is and you'll just make it worse."

"How do you know that, Hogan?" Marya asked. She touched his chest and smiled when she felt the silk. "Looks like Waffie gave you the good stuff."

"Marya." Hogan pushed her hand away. "I'm not interested and I never have been. I don't feel good right now, I would like my breakfast, and I would like to be left in peace. I've been out of Hotel Gestapo for three days now and I can hardly walk right now. Hochstetter is breathing down Waffenschmidt's neck to make him prove I'm Papa Bear and then he's going to kill me or dump me back in Stalag 13. I'm trying to enjoy another few days of warm and soft before the whole world falls out from under me."

Marya snorted and took off her hat to forcibly cuddle him. "Hogan, I know this man. He wouldn't bring you here just to kill you. If he did, he would just set the dogs on you or do it himself. Really, he's friendly with Colonel Deutsch and they don't play with their food at all. Unless, of course..."

Hogan tried to push her off, but he wasn't strong enough and Newkirk had long since fled the room. "Yeah, he's a kraut and friends with krauts and also a spy for the Allies. I don't know why he's friendly with old Angel Eyes, but I really don't care. Besides, I thought we blew him up."

Marya tipped her head back and laughed before kissing him fiercely. "Oh, Colonel Hogan! You astound me! Colonel Deutsch is too stubborn to die! And, besides, he wants revenge against the men who stripped him of his rank and pension! As you Americans say, the leopards ate his face! They took his house, his lands, everything he had that made him wealthy as soon as he lost the ability to walk without a cane or crutches. And, besides, he wasn't any fun in bed, either, Hogan darling. You share a few of those same attributes, you know."

"Yeah. It's called a healthy sense of self preservation," Hogan growled. "Who's Schuyer and why is he here?"

"He's a biologist," Marya replied. "And a chemist. A very smart one, too. He does human experiments mostly and I decided that I would pick his brain. For Mother Russia, of course."

Hogan felt like he was going to get sick. "H-human experiments?! Marya, that's a war crime!"

"He's a Nazi," Marya replied. "A real one. Not like Waffenschmidt and Deutsch. They do things like that, you know. Did you know that Deutsch was killing people to keep them out of Schuyer's hands? Berlin knew and they were going to take care of the problem sooner or later. As for Waffenschmidt, Hogan, the man is a terrible soldier. You really could have done so much better if this is where your heart desires. Germany is full of men who are stronger, smarter, and younger - and not to mention much more handsome."

Hogan tried to pull himself as far away from Marya as he could. "Marya, either you do something about Schuyer or I will!"

Now he knew why Newkirk was so unnerved and why Greta looked like she was going to eat everyone's face. There was a real true believer in the house, something Hogan had only dealt with a few times. Kaplowe had done lip service enough to keep his job and passed on a few papers if he was in the area. Waffenschmidt was Waffenschmidt. They called Deutsch "Angel Eyes" and "Mercy Kill" for a reason. All the spies had been men doing their jobs. Hochstetter was the only other true believer that Hogan knew and the man was a maniac. There was no telling the evil Schuyer had done or was going to do. Waffenschmidt seemed equal parts terrified of and repulsed by him, so he was going to be useless.

That meant Hogan needed to dispatch a Nazi from his sick bed. It was going to be hard, but Hogan was pretty sure he could do it.


	19. Chapter 19

Waffenschmidt's hands shook as he glared at the leering man. He was quite tired and the last thing he wanted to do was kill one of Hitler's pet murderers. If he did that, there was a good chance that he would make a date with the firing squad. If that happened, there was an even better chance that Hogan would wind up in an even worse camp than Stalag 13. Hogan might have had the run of that place from what Waffenschmidt had seen, but that didn't mean it was anything like being a free man. He didn't have the warm, filling food he needed there or the bed that would keep him more than warm enough at night. He was even missing the quiet comfort that Waffenschmidt could give.

Schuyer grinned a little bit. "You care for the man."

"I know." Waffenschmidt glared at the oatmeal and thought about throwing it across the room. "Of course, I care for him. He's a good man and I'm lonely. Why shouldn't I care for him?"

"Because you are a proper German soldier. Or, rather, you should be! You would be if you had half a lick on honor to your knee," Schuyer sneered. He sat on the rough looking table and crossed his legs. "You are to as swift, strong, sure, and loyal as one of your dogs. Instead, you keep a pair of Allied POWs as pets in comfort. The comfort that might come from, say, living in the lap of luxury that comes from the German people! While our men are starving! You're feeding your two Allied love slaves luxurious food while our men are starving in the snow!"

"I would love to feed our soldiers," Waffenschmidt replied. "We can start now. Hand me the sheep's milk, will you?"

"Sheep's milk?!" Schuyer yelped. " _That's_ what you're making breakfast out of?! You really are a fool!"

"Well, I can't exactly import deer milk from England, can I?" Waffenschmidt sneered. "No, sheep's milk is liquid gold. I would like to get nutrition in my Colonel and this is one of the best ways to do it. Lilly taught me how to do this, by the way. She used to make it for her children before they went to war. Anyways, oatmeal, honey, black currents... all steamed with milk from the sheep who live on my estate. It's going to keep him nice and healthy, so he can live to piss on your grave." Waffenschmidt grinned at him and it wasn't a nice man. "I loved that American you killed, by the way. He was the first man I ever loved seriously and the you killed him. Now you expect me to kowtow at your feet."

"It would be nice." Schuyer settled against the wall and glared at the wall. "I envy you, you know. You know what it's like to know the embrace of another human being, even if it was just a man. As for me, I haven't know even that."

"Maybe if you didn't do the things that you do, you would have a love," Waffenschmidt replied. "I'm sure that there's a woman out there just as crazy as you. Besides, didn't you try to get with that French chemist during the First War?"

"Yes," Schuyer growled. "Doctor Marie LamBeau. She tried to kill me, you know. I always wondered why my tea was so sweet until I learned she was lacing it with rat poison."

Waffenschmidt didn't doubt it. He just wished that LamBeau would have succeeded. He dished out five dishes of the steaming oatmeal, making sure that Hogan would have enough to fill him and not kill him, and he looked around for the silver tray. He really should have found Lilly or Hilda, but he didn't want them to see Schuyer. He also didn't want to see Marya and Lilly get into a fight again. That might have been funny one time - and Waffenschmidt had rewarded Lilly with a box of candy - but he didn't want to see that again. Hogan didn't need to be bothered by the cat fight, either. No, it was better that Waffenschmidt would serve the food, even if it was beneath him.

He handed Schuyer his bowl and directed him to the stove. It was quite the balancing act, keeping the pot of hot water on one side and the tray of oatmeal with the other. Waffenschmidt had no idea where he was going to find Newkirk, but he was pretty sure that Marya was harassing Hogan. The fact that Greta wasn't there told him that much. That meant he was going to need to get up the stairs with the tray and the coffee pot. Waffenschmidt eyed them. Now he knew how Hogan felt - getting up that was going to be like climbing Mount Everest. He didn't want to make two trips, because that was just going to take far too much time, but he also didn't want to make a mess on the carpet.

Thankfully, a very pale looking Newkirk darted out of the library.

"Uh, what do I do with the book?" he whispered. "You are the one who gave that to the Colonel, aren't you?"

"It needs to go to London," Waffenschmidt replied. "Or Danzig. Your choice - that's my contact in town, by the way. Can you drive?"

"Better than you!" Newkirk replied. "You almost broke my neck with that wild ride of yours! Where did you learn how to drive, the Army?! Uh, sir. Because I'm not using that mouthful of an SS rank and seeing as you have kinda quit that kind of life - of which I approve, I wish that more of your lot would do the same - I don't know what to call you. So would "sir" work? What about Count?"

"It doesn't matter," Waffenschmidt replied. He sighed and handed Newkirk the coffee pot. "You can have your breakfast after we save Hogan from Marya. The crazy man is locked in the kitchen for now."

"Good," Newkirk muttered. Then he sniffed the bowls. "Sheep milk or deer?"

Waffenschmidt grinned. "Sheep. Only the best for my Colonel."


	20. Chapter 20

Hogan had the feeling that he wasn't supposed to be getting up. After all, he was tired and he didn't need to exert himself. That said, there was a Nazi and a Russian he needed to kick out of this house. He had just struggled out of the bed when a very tired looking Waffenschmidt pushed into the room. If they had been back in Stalag 13 and Waffenschmidt had been Klink, Hogan would have steered clear until until the thunderstorm blew over. He settled himself back against the plush bed. Hogan really did hate living like this when there were boys sleeping in muddy foxholes and filthy bags of straw, but that was the price he paid for being Papa Bear. Besides, there was room service.

Waffenschmidt sat his tray on the bed. "If you say anything about this, so help me god..."

"I understand." Hogan poured himself some coffee and savored it for a few long minutes. "How long do we have to wait until they leave?"

Marya pouted. "Why, Colonel Hogan! A woman would think that you don't want her company - that you want her to _leave_! And that, I might say, is very rude. You should want to kiss me, Hogan darling! It has been too long since I have felt the strength of your sensual embrace and seen you as the prince you truly are! Why, I should just take you out of this place and hide you in my palace!"

"And have krauts or Soviets in my face?" Hogan snapped. "No thank you!"

Waffenschmidt sighed as he dished up the food. "Less talking, more eating. And Colonel, please try to finish your plate."

Hogan rolled his eyes. LeBeau was usually the one that mothered him when he was sick, but he did enjoy having another man fawn all over him. Breakfast in bed was nice, too. He dug into the oatmeal and enjoyed the sweet, almost savory taste. Back at camp, oatmeal was one of the things he trued to avoid - it was usually a paste that put cement to shame - but here, it was like high art in his mouth. The coffee wasn't half bad, either. He sat there for the longest time, just enjoying the silence. No one was hunched over half rotten rations or trying to choke down food that should have been destroyed months ago. This was just three friends - well, two friends and one annoying Russian - enjoying a quiet breakfast.

Marya broke the silence first. "Doctor Schuyer is going to Russia and that is final."

"Good," Waffenschmidt growled. "Danzig has informed me that London has no need for him and they would rather kill him than accept him into Operation Paperclip. Von Braun will make the cut, but that is only because he is the best rocket scientist in the world. If I had my way, I would hang him for all the men he's killed. Research can be discovered again and that fool is nothing if not meticulous."

"Wait," Hogan interjected. "Operation Paperclip?"

"Yes." Waffenschmidt smiled bitterly. "The war is going badly for Germany, I'm afraid, and to the victor goes the spoils. In this case, the spoils are going to be the V2 rocket program. No more sending madmen into the River Thames, Colonel. No, these men are committed Nazis, every one of them, but they are not fools and none of them want to be tried by the Russians. For once, I agree with Marya - those animals should be tried for their crimes and executed. However, the American high command has seen fit to offer the best scientists and their men a sort of life imprisonment - if they come and work for the Americans, these scientists will not be executed."

Hogan blinked. He knew there was bitterness in Waffenschmidt's voice, but he didn't know why. He gripped the coffee cup a little more. Once, he would have been all over the coffee and enjoyed it too much to pay attention to the dickering, but that was in the past. Hogan scooped up a little of the oatmeal and offered it to Greta. The big white bitch leaned over and licked his fingers after a minute. She thumped her tail against the bed, causing Waffenschmidt to frown, but he said nothing. Hogan forced himself to smile. He still didn't like dogs - especially big dogs. Greta was both of those, even if she did seem to be a gentle soul. Hogan did wish he could say the same for Marya, though.

"Why didn't I know about that?" Hogan whined. He poured himself a little coffee and watched the other two. "I could have kidnapped the scientists or something!"

"With all due respect, the Allies didn't want you to know because you might get captured!" Marya explained. "Really, Hogan, it's quite simple - you have a tendency to go overboard and sometimes you get captured. What you don't know can't be tortured out of you."

Hogan grimaced. She had a point. It was the same cold logic that was going to win the war, but Hogan didn't have to like it. There were times when he only learned of a mission months after it happened. And then there was Waffenschmidt - communicating to a female impersonator with pigeons like it was 1843 or something. There were times when Hogan wondered why Waffenschmidt had a higher clearance than he did. The man was more than a little crazy. There was no telling what he might do if one got him drunk. Hogan also had the feeling that Waffenschmidt couldn't take pain very well - the man was nobility, after all, and it was a small miracle that he could even tie his shoes.

"So this Operation Paperclip - is it only important Nazis or any guy with an engineering degree?" Hogan asked. He shrugged a little bit and helped himself to the rest of the coffee. "Because if they're looking to forcibly recruit German talent, I know some guys and they're not the type who are standing on a pile of dead bodies, if you get my drift."

"I'm afraid that they aren't valuable enough," Waffenschmidt sighed. He looked away. "I know good men who will be killed, too. It's hard looking at a man and knowing you're holding his death warrant."

Hogan swallowed. "Who?"

"His name is Karl, Karl Lehmann," Waffenschmidt sighed. He looked out the window as the snow started to fall. "I could have loved him, but he's not the type to love a man. He's... He didn't quite know what he was doing when he joined. It doesn't excuse the horrid things he's done, of course, but... It will make it harder for me to kill him later. He has a family, but he's killed fathers and mothers for a man who would destroy him in an instant. I never thought that he would be the type to round up innocent people and treat them like livestock, but..." He looked at his hands and for the first time, Hogan saw how scarred they were. "I shall have to kill him. I take no pleasure in killing, but I will..."

"Killing is never easy," Marya murmured. "It shows that you're still human."

"I know." Waffenschmidt looked away. "I'll need you to distract Schuyer for a few hours, Marya. And Hogan, please stay out of sight. I don't want to lose you and an old friend all in one day."

Hogan nodded. He understood all too well.


End file.
